May I ask you brother,
soldier of foreign wars:
a battle now raging
in the catacombs of your marrow,
if you suffer,
as you lay at my feet
cloaked in white linens?
I inquire
about your pain
as a measure in digits
of your suffering,
as if that integer
can convey your daily agony.
I attempt not to stare
at the sinew of your tendons
tearing forth through your forearms,
to peel my eyes from the image
of your emaciated breast,
as ribs thrust forth
asking heaven to grab hold
like the handle of a bucket
and carry you home.
Thankfully today
the must of falling rain cloaks
my nasal passages
from the odor of dying;
because yes doctor,
their are things in this hell on earth
that are far worse than death.
Behold the agony before me,
the cognoscente dying man!
In the past I could take solace,
in seeing the dying escape into delirium
that wondrous somnolent confusion
as death marches near,
yet today my friend,
as you speak,
it is painfully evident that your mind,
has fought away the waxing and waining sleep,
of peaceful passage.
Take a tincture of relief,
so that I may be relieved of my own suffering,
as you lay dying under my care;
drink of this cup and sleep,
if for a moment beyond the horror of nausea,
and a step ahead of suffering,
for I know this will not last.
As I leave your living tomb,
and break into the sterile hall
once again,
I breath again of that rain scented air
and thank the Lord,
as I scrub and scour
your suffering
from my hands.
