I was looking through an old box of my scribbles last night and came across a couple of pieces of paper with a - sort of poem - written on them. Very very rare for me to write a poem. Hard to decipher my writing but I just about managed most of it. I wrote it as my father lay dying. What I'm wondering is - did I make it all up or did I remember any of these lines from somewhere else. Anyone read this before?
Strange how the young watch the old leave this world
So unlike their entrance many years before.
No straining, screaming, struggling to life
Just lying still, breathing shallow, awaiting death.
At times I am removed from the horror of it
As though this frail figure isn't my dad at all
But some stranger over whom I keep the death watch.
For that is what it has become
A wait for death to break my father's grasp on life.
Sightless eyes, cold hand lying on top of the sheet
A face already skeletal.
Will the end come soon?
Will it be silent?
Will there be a final fight, a rage against the withdrawal of light.
No sound but a curl of the lips is our reward for sharing this moment
A smile for those he leaves behind along with his last breath.