Not past but present

Bitter air; howling winds of night,

I can feel, I can hear, but have lost all sight.

Dressings and sutures all made with gauze,

The curdling of blood; the festering sores.

A crib of veneer, all silk lined,

I’m longer present, but I’m still here in mind.

I have no present; I have no future,

The fatal wound, sealed by suture.

A popular figure, but has no friend,

A futile act, determined my end.

The cold light of day, laying for hours on end.

No warmth of touch or air to depend.

Delicate hands in frail hair,

This morbid profession, providing my final care

Voices become fewer, it’s the final hours,

My memory is honoured, but only in flowers.

The cold damp earth or burning light?

I can’t feel, I can’t hear, the end is in sight.