By: Fergus Carty
In the death cell, no longer a hospice room,
A wooden crucifix hung on the wall,
My Mother lay on a bed,
At peace, yet, one worry in her head,
“You must forgive”.
Secondary cancer,
Another bout with Death,
Late diagnosis. Failed surgery.
Lethal radiation. Poisonous chemo-therapy,
All strength sapped, all will subdued.
Choked out excuse to leave,
Bursting into the corridor, blundering along,
Caught in a flood of salt tears, stinging,
Through parquet canyons, gasping,
Smell of wax and disinfectant.
Under the eyes of stressed out staff,
Frightened patients and relatives,
Washed away, fought,
To block all thought,
Refusing to believe…..
On the final day, screaming,
Standing in her cold hall.
A demon claw shoved into my chest,
Ripping a piece of my heart from my breast,
No room in my soul then to forgive.
Fergus Carty
"Death most resembles a prophet who is without honor in his own land or a poet who is a stranger among his people".
~Kahlil Gibran
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