At five to two exact, the daily bell

alerts us patients to assume bland masks

to fool our worry-weary visitors,

who suffer in their health to make amends.

You bustle in with bags, bouquets, or books,

to keep me posted on the outside world,

to lay a treasure trail straight back to you,

whom routine rigmarole shapes quick and fit.

You brush my cheek, then stare behind my eyes

for hint of fight, or victory, or both,

while mouthing urgent mantra in my ears,

to hone my will to want to wager on.

You, who know nothing of pain’s whittling knife

that scrapes bones clean and makes the senses screech,

are deaf to Death’s seductive voice,

frigid to promised bliss from His soft hands.

`           You speak a language I can just recall,

name shadows I once knew; attempt a joke,

persuade me gently that it’s God’s great plan

my rich expression is reduced to mime.

Please, leave me now.  My smile is tired out

and longs to sag into a sadder pose.

Your presence strives to pull me from the edge

with love and hope that I would rather lose.

Rejoin the world beyond my bed!

Save your salt sorrow for the plight out there;

for I have leapt the Chasm of Despair

and landed safely on the other side.

 

updated by @americymru: 11/24/16 05:54:43PM