Saturday, July 20, 2013

The End.


The memory of Dad
lying on his bed
naked and vulnerable
eyes filled with dread.

Dad staring back
now standing instead
nothing happening
alone in his head.

I lay content on my bed
wondering on his doom
While inside my head
universes bloom.

The fear of being
alone at the end
age and decline
a story of pretend.

Did Dad feel the same,
alone on his bed?
Did the tunnel of light,
assuage his dread?


Duncan McGeary said...

I hesitated posting it though it was the second poem I wrote this week.

"Too personal," I told Linda.

"Poetry is personal," says she.

Helen said...

... so it is. My mother passed away here in Bend at Aspen Ridge Memory Care.