pale face
cheeks sunken
lips painted by your blood
in whispered rasp, as tears drop pass
you ask me if your dying
I take your hand
Hating that I know what I know
A general impression that I've never questioned
I whisper back, in forced composure
'They'll have to keep you here tonight'
all the times I've held cold hands
said the words, talked them down
calling Chaplins in the middle of the night
pouring water sought but never swallowed
frosted in failure, lifeless in grey
It never occurred to me, you'd end up this way
"Through the Echoes" plays, ironic a song as ever
at the same moment, as you drew your last
as if the universe to my heart relate
And I pass out on the same surgical floor
where I've stood many vagal men before
Dylan Thomas, whom I've quoted many times
Who seemed so right, now seemed wrong
As gentle you went beneath a cross
On my favorite saints', St Luke's hall
Where I taught just weeks before
all the times I've held cold hands
said the words, talked them down
calling Chaplins in the middle of the night
pouring water sought but never swallowed
frosted in failure, lifeless in grey
It never occurred to me, you'd end up this way
No comments:
Post a Comment