Hospice.

Hospice.

There is nobody else

In this black hole

Nothing but a darkness

Full of ignorance

A falsity of memories

The shadows thick with a grimace

Of disinterest, nobody bothers to hide

The walls may well be solid

Closing in on either side

The women’s eyes pass over

Seeing nought but the hollow

There are no windows to the soul

The hands that reach out

Will try to pull him under

The bones of him are gone

Even the sun will pass right through

With little or no resistance

The lightness of his being

So well crafted in absence

Of a likeness,

There are faces he remembers

Better than his own

Treasured in Excelsis

More important by degrees

With every new day

His own eyes, as round as saucers

Try to capture all of the pale light,

Funnelling it in

Hoping to filter out the impurities

And leave something more than a paucity

Of existence

The nature of its passage

The abrupt sharpness of its touch

Leaves its mark

Like a burn on his skin

As cold as steel on a winter’s morn.

There are no bayonets

But every time he is pushed against the wall

His chair turned away

The curtains closed on his day

The pain is more intense

Than a rumour.