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Poem

As I rush past the dastardly faces of those in pain,
I begin to ponder if it were possible to die here,
Surrounded by disease and loneliness the decrepit weep under those in control,
There daily dose of detrimental disruption,
The toxins streaming through their inadequate veins,
I slowly emerge from the empty corridor,
Hearing the woeful cries of those who are whining,

I have reached his bedside,
He looks up at me in such a way that cannot be compared,
I place my frigid hand upon his,
And I feel no warmth just the mulled sense of death in the air,
I glace at the tubes running from his weakened limbs,
His ever-growing fear racing through his diminished heart,

“Look after your mother, Noah”
A frail voice is heard,
I seek remorse from the dying man’s eyes,
How could I possible fill the leeway this man has kept between himself and my mother,
He is a constant trustee to my mother,
And a shoulder to bawl upon,

He himself knows he is approaching the inevitable,
His eyes wonder around one last time seeking a sense of fulfilment,
They soon lock on to my youthful eyes,
The diminishing hazel stained irises are slowly weltering away,
Along with my Gramps silver lined soul,
“Can you still have last words even though you are someone that isn’t well known?”
I chuckle with a teardrop flowing down my caressed cheek bone,

His hand lifts to my cherub like cheeks,
A final stroke of my now blessed face,
Only now do I notice the continuous beeps of machines is no more,
Just a flat line of sorrow.

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