Another Crossroad

Another crossroad. Invalids weep when wearing another's soiled diapers suddenly disappear. In spite of the battered off-chance - from a despondent interruption; I'm the exposed exception. Coarse fingers bleed. My wheelchair spokes are hardly friendly. I proudly bawl when no one can see me bow my head amongst the company of irreverent observers. At rest with this solemn disease - the embrassing stench of inhumanity forces me to open a newly glass-stained window. I whisk swallowed past-killings onto bent steel hangers. Neatly there, they elegantly droop - angled and uninteresting; in a dank closet where falsified myths and I silently hide. Leukemia, I personally, thank you. Mid wives laugh at me. Jesters poke a crooked finger, also. Kings, queens and jacks are left behind. I chuckle, too - with an unbridled Lucille Ball lament. Four spaded-aces and a forgotten spittoon; the uninviting hospice where we comfortably bed together crocheting darned finales. Say farewell. Don't tell anyone. Blood bleeds beyond frowned staled dales and expiration is a personal moment. Daddy and Mommy need to witness the definition of an unwarranted demise. Open ended the Grimm fairy tale concludes, without a finely tuned Aesop moral, leashing the braille-exhausted onto another muddied crossroad.