There are those whose interests I share;
compared to these interests, my voice cannot compare.
I remain inexorably silent all these years
while my spoken voice falls on set of ears.
Why do I run in a race with no end?
Why do I refuse food when I am hungry?
Why do I stay awake when I am tired?
I don't know what it is to be well-rested.
Who calls me softly with open arms?
Who intervenes, raising no alarms?
It is, of course, a friend.
A friend called the end.
My doctor frightens many.
Dread from me? There isn't any.
It takes a seat, and we converse.
It knows that I have gotten worse.
"Take your medicine,
it will be no sin,"
spoke my amiable friend,
the one called the end.
About the Creator
Dr Joel LaNacey
I used to be a bunch of atoms but now I'm alive, I guess.
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Reaching Out
I promise her. I'd do anything for her. She's my mom. Even as Lanie and Deanna are flying home, Mom is scrappy fighting dying. She lays too still in that too-big bed with all the toasty white hospital blankets, in the south tower, at the broad end of a long slow-turning corner that delivers me again to her private room with the view she can't see through, with the beeping that tells us nothing new, and all these ice chips she can't swallow, and a flood of well-intentioned nurses who cannot do a damned thing all the same.
By Christy Munson3 days ago in Fiction
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