Tag: sad

Departure.

Liberated
into the haven
of a mausoleum
lies a dove deceived-
its tattered pinions
a reminder of
a pledge riven
a reverie tainted
an innocence
betrayed…

To Let Go.

Despair.

Asphyxiated by the device
meant to grant you life
you pleaded to be released.

Lines running
through your veins
fighting to give you strength-
they only imprisoned you.

You-
always present
aware of the
commotion about you.
Bustling nurses
weeping children
through it all
your eyes were
locked onto mine.

“Help me let go” was your plea.

You grabbed my hand
shook your head
as if you knew this act
had been playing
long enough.
As if someone had
interrupted your journey
toward the place
you were meant to go.

So we released you.
Withdrew your tube
diminished your drips.

Severed the chains that bound you.

We comforted you.
You turned
toward your children.
Through a surge of strength
you assured them
it would be okay-
that through your going on
they would go on.

Then you turned back to me.

Though undeserving
of your last moments
you entrusted them to me.
You held my hand
held my gaze.

“Thank you,” was what you said.

And then you took your last breath.

And let us go.

Canvas.

Imprisoned
to the depths
of turbid waters
long submerged
is the weight of
a bruised heart
its flesh marred
by the beating
of a tide’s unrest.

Numbed
are her fists upon
splintered walls
the scarlet flow
of secrets divulged
onto a tapestry-
a living portrait
unveiled
for all to see.

Pouty Samantha Sunday.

Even though Samantha obviously didn’t feel like it, we [both] would still like to wish you all a happily peppy February day.

A Blessed Christmas Tragedy.

A bustling hospital. An unexpected arrival. A frigid Christmas eve.

I was saying goodbye to another patient when fate collided us.

“I’m sorry father,” I heard his son say, “you can no longer live with us, but here is a nice doctor who will find you a home. Merry Christmas, dad.”

Pretending not to notice his son’s exasperation as he pleaded for him to stay, I choked down the anguish from my own awareness of what was being witnessed and proceeded to examine him. 

Bound to the prison of his seat—scared, bewildered, frail—he looked so lost. He asked why, what he did wrong, where his son had gone, not fully comprehending the chaos surrounding. A deep sigh escaped pursed lips as I searched within for an answer that failed to come. Taking his hands, contorted by disease, I gazed into eyes dulled by years gone by—their hope fading beneath a glimmer of fear of an iniquitous present and that of an unpromised future–and I made him a promise I wondered if I myself could keep. 

“It’s going to be okay…you’ll see.” 

But hours pass, and it was not okay—he couldn’t sleep, he wouldn’t eat, and the only sound I heard as I passed the door of his half-vacant room was the resonance of muffled tears.

Behind a mask, I also let myself weep.

*    *    *

Soon the day ended. I entered his room, prepared to make my final rounds. But instead of a bid goodbye, what came out was an exclamation of the first words that came to my mind.

“Sir, I think we should have a party!”

And that was what we did.

A 90-year-old veteran. A 30-year-old internist. A 20-year-old nurse.

Gathered around his bed, over reconstituted hot cocoa, he shared with us his history, his joys, his life’s adventures. Over paper cups of chicken broth, I told him my story. As the muted treble of holiday cheer dripped through the bedside radio, together we heralded in, with bittersweetness, the arrival of Christmas Day.

He then took my hand.

As I started to apologize for the late hour, he stopped me. Eyes still glimmering, I heard him laugh, and I believed I finally caught a glimpse of what was the real him.

“Thank you for a blessed Christmas,” he said.

Yes.

A blessed one, indeed.

Angel.

Cursed by thirst unquenchable
beneath a blazing sky,
Gaze distorted by burning mist
that wells within her eyes.

A soul that weeps before mankind,
for truths they’ve never seen–
of jaded hearts, of bleeding flesh,
of wounds that lie between.

Melancholia.

Heed the echos of a heartache,
anguished sear of reverie.
Feel its scalp bleed down her face,
scathing tears of memories.
See the eyes that once freely smiled
fading with defeat.
As silent fields in which she lies
drift away with night’s conceit.

Sad Days.

Quillacollo, Bolivia

Back at the orphanage,
Juan mourns over his friend,
who had recently passed away.

I’m Sorry I Couldn’t Do More.

You took your life.

I’m sorry I was only
fifteen feet away.

The doctors were only fifteen feet away…

The Drowning.

Anguish
as waters frosted by twilight
weigh upon gossamer wings.
Deceived by a thirst unquenched,
I descend upon a reflection,
sinking into myself.

Imprisoned
within bitter tides,
I reminisce of a life relinquished–
where pinions sway unfettered
above blossoms coaxed by spring,
flittering from bud to bloom,
each bead of nectar
a fragrant haven.

Peering above to
heavens turned black,
tapestries of stars taunt
as they unbraid before me.
Below bitter waters,
shadows enshrined
whisper silently,
beckoning…

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