for W.H. Auden
A fallen comrade
passes into the dark night,
one moment standing at your bedside
holding your hand
as our digits intertwine
the warmth passing between
our skin.
The next:
your skin growing pale
the ashen fetor slips between your
dermis and subcutaneous tissues,
the funeral blues,
as you pass
ever so quietly
into eternal sleep.
You are taken
from your love;
their are no planes passing overhead
painting messages unto the sky,
for the only sound
is the respirator
switching to the off position.
Their are no stars
to extinguish in the night,
only cardiac monitors
and pulse oximeters
to disconnect
allowing silence,
in finality,
in your time of death.
