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By the end he became so frail
Speaking in hushed whispers, stopping for breath,
His vision blurred, his writing a scrawl,
“Bring me the moon” on a soft blue page.
It had been so swift and sudden
The deterioration; from diagnosis
To hospital visits, to recuperation at home
Finally to hospice care, with its air of resignation.
Drugged up and in pain, withered and emaciated
In barely five months, he became a wreck
Clinging desperately, with quiet heroism,
Still breathing but gasping, shivering and quivering.
Days became tortuous, the familiar uncomfortable
Except for the routine at dusk
The nurse drawing the curtain
Just as he catches the final glimpse. |
