Ward Three, Bed 2A.

The blanket of death
lies heavily on your failing chest
as you cough and splutter
and sweat poison.

Superficially, it is bone white.
Rough as the unforgiving nurses’
hands that pass and pass over you.

The steady waltz beat from
your heart machine raises the
other three corpses from their beds-
with Heaven shining godlessly from
their empty eye sockets,

They begin to gyrate like a
snake on ecstasy. The
dance is reaching climax as the
beat corresponds and thunders
a lead heavy samba.

Pale purple saints start to
crawl their way into the ward.
Each singing some old familiar
karoke tune.

A dull glow of redness as
demons you never reconciled with
rise their phoenix heads and
pirouette gracefully as their
slender arms slide in line
with each saint.

Only here could this be
a celebration of life - in death.

The dancing grows impatient
like a child learning of the darkness
of man's heart. The beat, the beat.

Faster.
Faster.

Then the final glissando as
your spirit spirals out of your
alcohol ridden body. Pearly white
like the teeth of a god.

Then all goes black; all goes damp
like Mother's best mourning clothes
whimpering on the washing line.

I cannot feel sadness.
I cannot feel melancholy
as I look into the pit your
carcass is thrown in
alongside Grandfather.

I only feel a bitter
pang of jealousy
since I am up here, feeling nothing but
agony;

And you lie down there,
living in perfect serenity
for all eternity.

How I wish I was you.

Dang.

That's creepy.

And yet....COOL!!!!!!!!!!!

A lot better than I could do, anyway.

That kinda reminds me of the song "One" by Metallica...very cool stuff.

My God, Joan. You remind me far too much of Sylvia Plath in this one. The images you used were absolutely amazing; every repetition and device was so well executed it might as well have been professional. And such a powerful message. Seriously. So haunting it was scary.

One of your best for sure.