Deathbed

A bed half eaten by termites She lay on, like her ancestors Before her, ripe of age A leaf that had been dried Between pages yellowed with age Threatening to fall apart At the slightest feel. Her eyes no longer Windows to her soul The black holes they were From which nothing escaped. She breathed day and night To the dismay of her children Who stood by her bedside Doing nothing but helplessly sigh Even the tattered blanket Seemed to mock her When pulled over her head Let her scrawny feet peep out The wait seemed endless Making all wonder Was it death refusing to claim her? Or her refusing to quit?