...

frail and pale

this one legged sack of potatoes

used to be a man...as tall as me

we turn him every few hours to help prevent bed sores

every half hour because he calls us in out of discomfort.

out of loneliness.

out of the dark.

cold eyes

grey and glazed

look up to no where

at me, through me, past me

to the walls the skies

whatever lies behind...

a cold ass heart comes in

to question

asking when's his time to die..

who wants his body

do i have to bury him

his wife

not even accepted for science

alone in the dark

death looms over him

not even i can see

the weight of his obscurity

not even touch can matter now

facing the darkness that shades his brow

holding his hand, offering care

he could barely see me there...

i can't express what it's like to watch someone waiting alone for death to come.

you can't fix anything at that point

eyes stapled to your destination

when will it end?