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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
symbolism.
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
forget-me-nots

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'm.now 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

They
Don't
Hurt
Genre: Abstract
Theme: Examined Life
quiel 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!
Alexa May 2019
have you ever
had cancer?
in your brain?
did it hurt?
did you cry?
i would actually
like to know.
a girl in my grade got diagnosed w/ stage 4 brain cancer. Because I'm on student council I'm helping plan a fundraiser for her, to help pay her medical bills. And I'm supposed  to spread the word so... Here I am. Here you are. Wow.
Also, if you would like to donate to her or come to her fundraiser look up #samantha_strong on instagram.
Kit Scott Oct 2018
It is like tasting paper

Except worse

It is trying to drink air for the lack of water

But it is worse

It is the deadly, delicate, overwhelming feeling of being smothered in something i cannot see cannot feel cannot taste or touch or hear but it is there and it brings pain and a strange kind of emptiness

pipes, made of pipes we are (i am)
trapped inside flesh and
hung over, draped upon, wrapped around brittle
rickety crickety cracking bones like
empty teeth or
the bendy bit of bendy straws trying to pretend like they
               don't bend

Finding it within myself to exist as i am
Is not something that i am entirely sure i can do
This time around

(It is not my fault,
not mine,
never mine,
never.

I know this.
They keep saying it.
Perhaps they're trying to convince themselves,
I must be such an inconvenience, after all.)

I am pain all over, clenched teeth and tensed limbs
and I am listless
empty
Tumbling hollow head over weak heels in an ocean of
nothing-

-everything.

And by gods I hope that I wash up on shore with something in
my brain besides water because I hope that at
the end of this there might be those
words those three sweet
words that might just
say something
like-

To Be Continued.
Ongoing.

[I do not have a terminal illness; this is character writing in poetry. I just feel I should clarify this as it is not my intention to mislead anyone.]
Nico Reznick May 2018
She writes to him in the hospice,
his widow-in-waiting.  A girl at her care home
brings her envelopes, colourful pens, sheets of paper in
pastel shades, and takes her missives to
Reception to go out with the mail.
She writes to him, keeping her messages short so
the nurses have time to read them to him, and because
he gets tired so quickly now.
She encloses copy photographs for the nurses to
show to him, pictures of their adventures together:
them in hiking boots and toting backpacks atop a
Saxon burial mound; picnicking and almost sunburnt
beside a vast lake reflecting a perfect, bygone blue sky
in its tranquil surface; on a sandy Welsh beach, building a
campfire from smooth, soft-grained, bone-pale driftwood; him
asleep on a train, his head resting on luggage
and hat pulled down over eyes.
In one communiqué she writes:
“I’m sorry you took the mountains with you.”
She means – she explains to the care home girl
who brings her stationery and takes her mail – that
when he moved to the hospice and she to the care home,
all the photos of their mountain holidays – the Vogelsberg,
the Dolomites, Monte Rosa, Chamonix – had been
packed up along with his possessions, and put in storage
by his family.  She sends him copies of
the only photos she has left.
And that is what she means, but not just that.
It’s been a long time since she stomped mud off of
hiking boots, or felt that gorgeous ache in her muscles
from a long, hard climb, or kissed in a cable-car,
or let the wind tan her face as she breathed
rarefied air.  Those summits seem very far away,
and the woman who once scaled them never could have dreamed
that life could become so flattened.

In some quiet room, a nurse shows him the photographs.  
A heart monitor describes
a craggy range of peaks and dips; each elevation, every ascent,
could be a terminal journey.  Soon, one surely will.
The nurse can’t tell if he hears her as she reads to him,
“I’m sorry you took the mountains with you.”
Based on true events.  Working with the elderly can be a beautiful sort of heartbreaking at times.
Lady Ravenhill May 2018
Which do you think
Would hurt less
Living a terrible lie
Or dying over the truth?
These past five years
I am the definition of both
And they slowly numbing
My will to care
Who gets hurt in the end.
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