It is hard to hear <br />what you are telling me, <br />what secrets you hold <br />from undistracted rigidity <br />and fluffed up pillows - <br />Your room is a sanctuary, <br />a spacious collage <br />of the last walk of life <br />and I come to med you, <br />crushed narcotics <br />in thick, yellow pudding <br />and I come to feed you <br />thru a rubber tube, <br />a four by four dressing, <br />attached to your belly - <br />Like a frightened animal <br />you solemnly retreat <br />'I am dying, you tell me, ' <br />yellowed skin <br />muted by parched lips and sunken eyes <br />I want to stop this walk of death <br />I want to scream the lessened <br />dignity of a man in diapers, <br />bed sores that will not heal, <br />and a small televison on all night.<br /><br />Louise Marie DelSanto<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/last-walk-of-life/
