livedo

Here again,
in these halls,
the putrescence
is horrific this morning,
yet I push on
past the fungating wounds,
and the emesis basins.

I see you
from the moment I turn the corner,
and I know,
in a single glance,
that death is at hand.

Your palms cold and pale,
a sign of the catastrophic hemorrhage,
that is suffocating
your mind;
a heart screaming
to keep up with
the brains demands.

You have passed beyond
pain,
and for a moment I take solace,
and sit;
filling the void
to prevent another soul
in this hell of a place
from dying alone.

Your hands limp,
and peaceful in mine;
my hands
full of anger and sadness
as I had held these hands
just days before,
when life was vibrant
and hopeful.

Now sitting
with my hand in yours
watching the slow
decline
in breaths
and heart beats;
I see you escape
from this mortal prison.

I pray now
that you sit
in peace,
in love,
and with hope
for a better day.

rage against

I am here again
in the darkness
screaming for you,
raging against
your pulseless arrest.

My hands now gripping
a final salvo
the squeal of the charge
growing in the morning
light;
you jump then,
at my touch,
a final
burst
of energy-artificial-iatrogenic.

I pace around your bed
a general at battle,
loosing yet again,
to the war in you heart.

Five weeks now
I have watched you
die;
some quietly overnight,
slipping away from this earthly grasp,
other though, died,
with a warrior by your side,
raging against
your premature escape.

I want you to know
that despite our different origins,
the barriers of culture and language
I have loved you
I have ached for you,
and my heart has
broken
for you.

Standing now
yet again,
as the battle
comes to a quiet close.
I watch you take
your final breath
agonal and deep,
your last effort
to consume this world
one final time,
until you expire-
my hands still
on your empty chest.

Touching you now,
your raging heart quiet,
at last
their is a moment of peace;
until I walk to the next bed,
and my rage consumes me
stoking the fires of war
once again.

Into Africa

I left you today,
flew away in the darkness
of morning.
The rain falling
like tears
in anticipatory anguish,
of the loneliness to come.

No words can express
the pain and sorrow,
as you wear it freely
etched in your amber eyes.

I know not to where
I will tread,
but this I know;
without you by my side,
I would wander, lost.
You have given me
this life,
of boundless possibility
of maddening love,
of bliss.

The color of your eyes,
the taste of your lips
lingers with me now;
a memory I thrust
into permanent storage
as to draw upon you
for my ongoing strength.

For into Africa
I fly,
with an ounce of abandon
and a gallon of
anxious anticipation.

I know not what
this world holds in store,
but I promise to
drink it to the fullest;
to challenge my soul,
my convictions,
my knowledge and beliefs.

I promise you my love,
that your sacrifice
will not be in vain,
for I will take
the love and trust
you have blessed upon me
to serve the suffering
and heal their wounds
with you at my side.

Sleep tonight in solace
that I travel
as your vessel of hope,
and with your fortitude
will strive to bring
pride to your heart.

the violins

I did not order the violins
singing down these sterile hallways,
in the florescent glow
of ward eight.

I did not order the sadness
streaming in glistening tears
down the faces
of your seven sisters.

I did not order the agitated delirium
that has plagued your mind
switching your days to nights;
a circadian beast.

I did not order the carcinoma
diagnosed on hospital day six,
which has answered the wrenching question,
of your rapid decline towards death.

Yet, I did order the comfort
of your family at your bedside,
holding vigil
in your honor.

I did order the tincture's
to relieve pain and the disquieting confusion,
in a final salvo
against an unnatural death.

sitting

They say that as you go along,
you learn to sit with it:
with the sadness,
with the hopelessness,
with the trauma,
with the terror and the horror,
with the nightmares and flashbacks,
with the memories.

I have been told,
that the sitting gets easier,
that you can listen to the story,
within the story,
like some sort of Jedi mind trick.
That you can sniff out,
the trail head towards redemption;
a bloodhound in the darkness,
bounding through the fog of memories.

The sitting continues,
day in and day out,
yet the sitting is never the same,
the themes, the plot lines, though,
seem to repeat,
sparkling around the room,
a mirrored disco ball,
of dysfunction.

The sitting today,
fresh and plump,
of excruciating pain and shear agony,
of torture,
of madness growing in the depths,
of anger in the bowels,
retching forth with each syllable,
and sitting,
I reach out,
and attempt to pluck,
the words out of thin air,
in a feeble attempt,
to make the bleeding stop.