The last daily poem. Seriously this is killing me.

I wrote this after the death of my grandfather from metastasized cancer. He died in a hospice, and though they were as nice as could be, its hard not to remember that place with a dark attitude.


Grandpa choked on his own fluid.
At least that’s how the hospice
lady called it, as her noose blond
hair swung in horse tail strokes

with each of her damning steps.
Heels? No, I don’t think the death
keepers wear those, unless out
on the town and thinking of any

thing else other than my Papa’s
wide, yellow eyes and gaping
mouth as the vapor mask snarls
and the morphine drips a subtle

darkness into his failing veins.
Its not that I blame the banshee.
She deals with the undealable
quite regularly. Me? Who am I?

I form verse from the divine
muse of my grandfather’s drowning.

Fuck Verse…
just fukc


One Response to “The last daily poem. Seriously this is killing me.”

  1. Starkly reminds me of my father’s death. I watched a just-turned 59-year old man drown in his own fluids…the death snarl, all of it. Just two years earlier he’d had a heart attack. Surgery went off without a hitch…except for one thing: MRSA. <– It slowly killed him, beginning by eating the flesh between his breast plate and his chest cavity. Docs went in and did reconstructive surgery to fix that problem. But the MRSA was still there, evolving…flowing through his blood stream. Docs said if that was the risk he took getting the quadruple bypass heart surgery. Now, nearly five years past his death, I still question the decision, the surgery, the outcome…wonder if there was more that I could have done to get him the help he needed. But I digress. This poem you wrote is very emotional, tugs on my personal heart strings… speaks volumes — my condolences on your own loss. Peace & Light —

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