Anthony Hicks, Clerical Assistant
Eyes; that once burned with flames of life
sea grey, deeper than the oceans depths,
Are fading and clouding into coming night
dimming into twilight and their final rest.
Face; soft etched with youths fading grace
is now scarred over by Deaths cold hand,
Memories of you worn away like frayed lace
leaving only the jutting bones to stand.
Hands; hands that once moved my world
lie like the roots of old upended trees,
Stubby, grey and wrinkled with the cold
they persist while their life force flees.
Body; gutted and worn down, so thin
all crumpled up like old waste paper,
Stiff, gritty, blurred, hiding a dozen sins
waiting, waiting; for what comes later.
Breath, rattling and wheezing in gasps
matching the slow ticking of the clock,
But, the rhythm is slipping; till at last
in a final hissing gasp; it slows and stops…
And I try, I try; to hold that fleeing moment
as if by holding back his passing tide,
Deaths icy cold grip might yet be broken
and you would then awake and rise.