Free Verse
The Room
In the room
there are four beds,
they are made for those who are suffering,
who are dying,
traversing their last mile;
for all pilgrimages come to an end.
The space is earth tone in color,
soothing to the eye;
a big picture window looking out
over a small parking lot,
and beyond grass, trees and a grotto,
created for the consolation
of those simply waiting.
So weak are they,
the men who wait,
bodies slimed down not by diet,
or exercise,
but by disease eating away,
slowly and painfully
their very life force,
sinking unhurriedly into darkness.
One wanted to get up,
yet he was restrained
(an indignity but a necessary one);
he was a poet not so long ago,
his work upon the wall
just to the left of his bed;
so that those who wish can read.
(I wonder what he would write no if he could)
One, a young man,
I spoke to him once
a friendly sort;
he smiled as he sipped his coke,
after which I helped him place it
back on the table top.
Now he just lays there
too weak to really speak,
all I could do is stroke his forehead
and soon left,
for I could see
my presence was draining.
My friend also,
still looking strong,
he still has meat on his bones;
though he complained of fatigue,
an aching in his joints,
also the muscles of his body so very tired,
that rest did not relieve.
He was a bit confused
having trouble with his cell,
not quite sure how to answer the phone,
hitting keys at random
trying to bring up what was once easy,
and taken for granted,
now a mystery,
complicated,
what was once simple to understand;
it is only the beginning
of his slow decent into
the darkness.
To my sorrow,
I almost think of him
now as a child;
it shames me to admit this,
yet in the end
most of us become children again
in our need
for care and protection,
and most of all,
the love of friends.
I see myself in all these faces,
perhaps I see the reflection of all my loved ones,
for all are also on pilgrimage
which must come to an end.
Clinging is impossible,
though perhaps we try,
some more desperate than others;
in the end it means nothing,
for what will be,
will be.
It is like falling off a log,
this business of becoming ill,
it happens,
and we decline,
like the flowers of the field
we wither and waste away.
Yet we still dance,
laugh,
eat and drink,
and mostly we love,
or seek it,
long for it.
For many,
love hides,
playing with us
and we search mightily,
all the days of our lives.
Until our own ticket is called,
our number is brought up
and we experience first hand,
in the depths of our being,
the darkness
to which we all
will one day
without exception sink.
Perhaps it is then,
that the hide and seek ends,
for perchance
when all is taken away,
are we then allowed to finally embrace
that which has no form,
yet is infinite love.
The seed that is planted
is our lives,
our very selves
at last bearing fruit,
truly becoming
what we are,
for all will be made known.
