This sorry bag of flesh that once was me
is nothing but a living prison cell
which doctors flit about and patiently

invade in vain attempts to make me well.
If only I could tell them, let me go –
but words rise up, then tumble down a well

of mind and body, derelict and slow.
What sounds come out are stuff of fever dreams,
stirred in reality’s uneven flow.

They stamp, dementia, and so it seems –
I yank IV’s and earn my light restraints –
but listen to the message, not the screams:

this agitation’s how I file complaints.
Remove these tubes, I beg you, please unhook
me from the monitor, the one that paints

green lines across a screen, so you can look
upon my failing vitals. Quality
of life should be important – close my book!

I’m ready now; it’s time to set me free.
Hold my hand; I’ll walk toward eternity.

12/12/2002

Posted on 12/12/2002
Copyright © 2024 Bruce W Niedt