Into the death room I was led.

Where nature's last sparks of electricity
pulse through a familiar body,
barely stimulating a heart to pump blood
through frail and ag'ed  mottled skin.

Where light behind once azure eyes
slowly dim to opaque blue.
Eyes open, but not seeing,
ears hearing, but unable to respond.

Dentureless mouth agape,
taking almost mechanical shallow bursts of breath
in marionette fashion,
as if strings pulling bony shoulders sharply up and slowly down
were methodically, dramatically, skillfully manipulated
by a hand unseen.

Sunken face reveals the hidden shape of the skull within.
Smooth, silky flesh
stretched o're an unfamiliar, emotionless, flicking gaze.

No incoherent moaning today,
no unconscious slowly floating arms,
nor grasping of my fingers to let me know
.....I am still here.

The light switch is being turned off.

In the death room the dash between ones all important dates is born. Mary Elizabeth Fields Goodwin .......Born 7/31/18 - Died 9/17/16
…...like a babe, the dash is delivered.

Was it a full life, this dash?
Was it meaningful?
Was it loving, giving, humble?
Did this one get to do all that it wanted?
Did it finally arrive at where it had hoped it would be?

Or was it filled with regret and remorse,
or hatred, pain and sorrow?
The death room puts it all into perspective.

It was a life.....
It was a life lived.......that is all.
Nothing can be added or taken away.
Nothing was ever missing, broken, or damaged.

Who would dispute this in the death room with its finality?
Its silence,
its soul-less body that had never been perfectly still in over 98 years?  

This life that lived exactly the amount of time that it lived.
A leaf in Autumn, spiraling slowly to the ground,
with no parade, no fireworks, no angelic chorus,
just a husband of 79 years, a daughter, a son.......

Draw near and say your goodbyes now......
the death room is almost here....

It's all right Mom, it's alright to go now...... We'll be Okay.......
A stroke of the brow,
a last breath.......

Let go of a lifeless hand.......... and the death room is born.


*This poem is for all of you poets who have encouraged me to keep on writing. You know who you are.

Do not tell me not to talk so much,

while you sit there in your stoic, vague, unreadable, silence......

Playing your life-like a poker game,

looking for “tells” in everyone,

feeling lucky,

deeming us out here as damaged,

missing,

broken,

Constantly awaiting my next **** up.

That **** up that you know is going to happen.

Coldly, methodically critiquing my every move,

painting me incapable of producing a life worth living.

How clever you think you are, to not laugh at my jokes

or not carry on conversation unless you deem it worthy.

You do all of this to not give up your “tell”.

Not let anyone into your world.



Do not tell me to not flail my hands when I talk,

because you are not as excited about your life as I am.

In fact do not think you have authority to deem anything I do as right or wrong.

You do not have that luxury.

If and until you learn to love yourself

your ego will continually feed itself by debasing,  

feeling the need to change everyone around you.

How tiring it must be to sit in judgment of me,

picking apart my existence.  

What goes on in your narcissistic mind, that makes you not accept me as I am?

Why is my freedom less important than your picture of how I should be?



Although, not intentionally, from your dysfunctional life,

you have produced a seeker of the truth.

And Love was the stimulus.

The love that I never saw.

I learned to love myself.......unconditionally.

But where did that enlightenment come from?

It came from Love itself.

Tapped me on the shoulder,

wrapped its arms around me,

and led me to the light of truth.

You will turn around one day and look for me,

I will be gone.

You will have no one to share the rest of your life with.

This short, meaningful, time we have on this earth,

the one you ****** with and lost.......

There will be no one willing to play your poker game,

and you will have to die alone.



I believed you,

I looked at myself through your eyes

and I saw the misfit that you believed I was,

and I bought it.

After all, you are the one from whom I was to learn life.

But I did not get the education I deserved.

I was formed out of your mind,

from a mistake you made.

And I was made to believe that I too was a mistake.

Because you couldn't keep your **** in your pants.

I am the product of a hot August, unairconditioned night of sweaty lust.....and it was probably my Mother's manipulative doing.

She needed to keep you around, so why not another kid to suckle her *** and make you go out and make more money.

Was I planned, did you look into my Mother's eyes and lovingly say, let's make a baby?

I think not.

You ****** up.



Enter the rearing of a mistake.

****, you will never know just how incredible I am, you will never see me as I am, you will never see anyone as they truly are.

You are so brainwashed with you prejudice, playing your poker game, looking for your “tell”.........