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Poem

His thoughts go off like bombs inside his mind,
so deafening, so poisonous, so doomed
to thrash against a dam of memories
that take him back to hopeful yesterdays.
His thoughts will shout but never make a sound,
his mind as sharp as when we was a boy.
His body, once so strong, has flickered out
like flames that reach the end of blackened wick.
His head is full of words he longs to speak,
but in this hell, he cannot move his lips.
As constant tremors steal his weathered pen,
his stranger-hands will never touch again.
He yearns to feel her porcelain petal-skin,
to count the fervent beats beneath her chest. 
But she can only kiss his hollow cheek
where salty tears commingle in despair. 
She sits with him and holds his withered hand.
She runs her shaking fingers through his hair.
He needs to see her soft, angelic face
until his lungs can't hold another breath.


Dedicated to those with ALS and anyone who has had to watch a loved one suffer through this terrifying disease

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