It Doesn'T Help To Cry
You're confined to a bed
with a sweaty smell.
And there are no windows
as far as you can tell.
Food spilled on your covers
gathers flies on your plate.
And you find yourself in
a vulnerable state.
The radio's broken
there are no books to read.
And you can't get a nurse
no matter how you plead.
Geriatric nightmares
await you in this place.
And you feel forgotten
as the years slow their pace.
You know that you'll be here
until the day you die.
And yet, you hold your tears,
it doesn't help to cry.
Secluded in shadows,
you long to feel the sun.
And pray death will come soon,
so your time here is done.
(Quatrain)
9/23/2015
Copyright © Emile Pinet | Year Posted 2015
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