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A M Ryder Aug 2022
There's no easy
Way of asking
I already know
What he's going
To say but
Maybe he just
Needs to say it
So I ask
Him anyway
"Are you scared?"

Only smiles
And a patience
I've never seen
In the face  
Of someone
Who knows
That they
Are dying
Michael A Duff Apr 2021
If there is another thing beyond this one I shall meet it

Seeing beyond the futures of tomorrows not yet lived

There is a place I feel it I'll meet you there
I was diagnosed with a rare form of terminal cancer, I want to wrote my thoughts until I can't one day the right person will read them
Carlo C Gomez Mar 2021
this once sound vessel
succumbing to agony,
as if scuttled by
a siren at sea,

and in her heart
flutters and sunbeams,
she's not alone
in her dreams,

there's a torch light
with wings, dancing
about her wounds,

it burns of empathy,
but too numb to feel the pain
of her dying rooms,

hereabouts goodbye,
under the silk of anesthesia,
she whispers,
"blade of grass, then away we fly..."

Please don’t leave this way
You don’t know
I don’t have much time left
to stay.
Please give me a hug
Let me hold you one more time
Soon it will be too late
if it goes the predictable way.
tears don’t come out
I don’t want to break this heart
Not yet anyway.

When someone is terminal it’s very hard to share this with love ones! Harder then you think!!
Nico Reznick Sep 2020
After their separation, she used to joke
that they’d get back together when
- and only when - one of them
was on their deathbed.  Well, it
wasn’t quite a prophecy, but it did land
painfully close.

Almost fifteen years since they’d last met,
he caught a plane, got picked up from the airport by
a stepson, long estranged, who
brought him to the hospice.
Seeing her there, in a terminal tangle of tubes
pumping drugs into her veins and
oxygen into her riddled lungs, he said:
“But she looks exactly the same,” and
if that isn’t code for, “Yes, I’m
still in love with her,” then
I don’t know
what is.

The next day, he bought her flowers,
fretting over floral symbolism
and how his bouquet could be interpreted.
Their daughter advised,
“Just pick something pretty,” so he chose
pink roses, stargazer lilies.  Of course
she loved them.  They were
from him.  
“Do you remember,” she asked him, as leaves
fell from tall trees outside the window,
“when we were the beautiful people?”

The flowers outlived her,
if you
really want to
talk about
My parents
Right hand, labours on. Burdened
by the clay of her body  
A stubborn limb.  
In tempered skin.

Still, her left
Passed in Spring.

It's gentle palm
Curls open.
Leaning into the
surly revolt of her body.

Summer swirled.
A haze of sun.
And delicate

Autumn threatens floods.
Swollen clouds loom overhead.
We brace for bitter winds
In the Winter of her life.

And the rain pours.
And the rivers carve a map.

And the days pass.
Searching the blur of her body.
A ****** wristwatch throbs
Pulsing past a beating heart
Mocking mottled skin.

And the rain pours.
And strength settles into the seat.

A soft creak of leather
Warms the room.
whispers of my presence
Saturate the cell walls
of her coma.

And the rain pours.
And unearths an infinite truth

A graceful dance. She flees
The wreckage of her broken body,
Expired lungs exhale all suffering.
A parting gift.

And the light guides.
And she sets sail.
And the light guides.

A compass tears through swollen skies.

And the rain pours.
And the floods rise.

And the banks burst.
And the rain pours.

And the rapids
Drag me into the gutter.

By Anna Grace Du Noyer
A poem about the end of life. Influenced by the profound event of my Mums death and unexplainable higher existence of which I' sure. And being left behind. : the poem contains graphic imagery of end of life experiences. Caution is advised if this could affect you negativly.
VineBabe Aug 2020
Swish, thump, swoosh. I jump !
How could I best keep the rope
From around my neck.
Carlo C Gomez Jul 2020
Dying is not a crime
But for playing God
I'll probably do time

Pretty little euthanasia
My disconnected phone
Always going home

That open window
To the fire escape
I am the center of a lake

The kids next door
Liked to play with me
Now we don't see them anymore
Thomas W. Case's Historical Figure Poetry Challenge, Dr. Jack Kevorkian.
Mystic Ink Plus Nov 2019
Dead are silent

Genre: Abstract
Theme: Examined Life
Q Sep 2019
The words hiding behind my mouth are cradled in my soft hands
Hold them, feel their heat, decode the messages under my skin,
Each of them from a language you cannot even recognize;
The familiar sights of home are nothing but
Empty bottles of knowledge kept away in a box only I hold the key to;
Run towards me and please please please listen to me, for
My words cannot bridge the gap between us although
I have tried; with
No clamor in the background,
Ask me to repeat myself once more, and please please please
Listen to me.
yet another acronym poem!
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