MORIBUND

                                            MORIBUND                                            

Anguish hangs in the silence.

Too late now those unsaid words,

To heal the wounds of time.

Oh, that I’d got here quicker.

Has the Reaper been already?

Is the harvest gathered?

Wait….almost imperceptibly,

The rise and fall of the bed cover betrays hidden life.

The faintest flicker.

From the shadows of the ward Panacea emerges.

“Sit up…do please try”

Skinny wrists move almost imperceptibly,

Flopping feebly back onto the bed cover,

As if the clear plastic tube snaking up to the saline bottle is too heavy.

Grey blue lips emit a faint whispered response.

Or is it just a sigh?

It’s impossible to tell.

Unfocused eyes register neither pain nor emotion.

Gentle arms embrace bony, hunched shoulders.

To lift the head or raise the dead ?

A spoonful of grey ooze between sealed lips

Trickles uselessly down a stubbly chin.

She wipes it away and smiles.

“I’ll leave it here for him…when he’s ready.”

 I  protest,

“He’s very weak” she interrupts.

“We can’t force him…let him rest first”

She speaks to me as you would a child.

If only she knew!

My hunger;

His thirst.

I try once more to reason with her.

She smiles condescendingly. 

“We’ll see….he’s in no pain”

She moves away, a shadow in the distance once again.

There seems no point in staying further.

Next day he’s curled up like a foetus.

Not even covered by the bed sheets.

He hasn’t even tried.

On that bleak and lonely night something inside died.

Even his beloved Mozart stirs no flickering embers of life .

I regard the pathetic old broken husk and see myself.

Without grief. Without pity.

Copyright Ben Corde 2013