elderly woman

Malady.

Desperation.
Driven by disease
more clever than our hands,
you elude our grasp.

Come back.

Poison,
fighting for the soul

courses through your veins,
while the dusk

consumes the mind
of your decay.

Do you hear me calling?

Forsaken by a beast deceiving,
your breaths remains unmarred.
Spared by fiendish mercy,
your heart beats
undisturbed beneath the curtain
of a vacant shell.

I know you hear me calling.
I know you’re still there.
Perhaps our love will bring you back.

Come back to us.

poster

If I Could Give the World a Gift…

poster

Baby PuppyDoc’s grade school project.

If I could give the world a gift,
in a form simple, pure- a trifling shift-
some comfort to the day, a smile to your heart,
w
isdom for your soul, warmth to every part.

If I could give a gift that’s real,
each bruising stab, its wound would heal.
The scar resulting, to remain no more,
but a closure true, stilled to the core.

But if I could give a gift of mine,
what would it be but a drop in the Rhine?
A carbon in diamond, an atom of a stone-
What difference would it make, if made alone?

If I could give the world a gift,
true and honest, though slight, a lift-
to share my love ’til love’s no more.
May we flow this gift together…a drip into a pour.

Dilated cardiomyopathy

The Big Heart.

Fluid.
Limbs flooded,
lungs immersed,
skin engorged-
you chase it off.
Pill
after pill.

Nights.
Twilight wheezes 

upon three pillows.
Four.
Five.

Bare
are your breaths
as you gasp,
fight-
hunger unquenched.

Stairs
unconquerable,
indomitable,
fatigue intractable.
Slowly you ascend.

Still
you conquer,
embrace
love,

life,
strength.

Your heart full.

Your dilated cardiomyopathy.

 

Cadaver.

Tendons, vessels, muscle, bone-
little more than its sum, alone.
Without life, alone.

A heart upon your fingers,
fibers smooth, firmness lingers.
A pump sleeps, alone.

Nerves, severed and denuded,
shimmering, taut, function diluted.
Pain without feeling, alone.

A lung, delicate sponge, blackened,
absorbs an essence, greyed, maddened.
Vacant sacs, stale breaths, alone.

The cerebrum, split, its valleys and mounds,
embodies a soul, full, without bounds.
My lifeless being is nothing alone.