It is late

[dara.cv]

he hasn’t been healthy for a long time
So long, I don’t remember, the last time when.




I walk the hall and see a light
Under the crack of the door
It flickers to the sound
Of an action movie
Some movies remind me
Of the agility, vitality,
and vivaciousness
That he no longer has
It is late

I open the door
And see him resting
His eyes closed
Dark circles under his lids
Heavy from all the years
That 8 hours just cant
Catch up with
I turn off the movie and allow
the room to be silent
except for his breath
shallow gasping breaths
slow sighing release
like a respirator
it is late

I am startled
By the whiteness of the walls
And angered by the bleached sheets
that had been laid for his bed
the smell of disinfectant still lingers
my grandmother
never stops cleaning
she being a nurse
He is uncovered
And I seek a blanket
Finding one that is red
Draping it over
a image flashes in my mind
becoming to real
It is late

I stop and stare
Not wanting to go
Because what I feel will
Someday come to be.
And for us both
It is late

[Pryderi Agni]

OK, corrections first: Third paragraph, last but third line's supposed to be "becoming too real", doesn't it?

Now the criticism: amazing work! You've got a firm grasp of the sad elegy, and the slow inexorable death of your brother (I assume it's your brother) is very vividly imagined. You're a very forthright poet, too, which means you don't truck with the Transcendental crowd, right? Spectacular job!

As commiserations, here's something in reply:

Few lines can barely hold
a lifetime lived far too frugally,
and a death
approaching far too fast.

He's going away, my dear,
going away far too quickly,
walking far too briskly.
--Far too distant a silhouette
for you to see clearly.

Take then this heavy garland
made of heavy truth-serum words:
Put this on him as a medal of victory,
or on his bier as a final goodbye.

[blazeofglory]

There is poignancy and vehemence in the poem that makes it fiery.

[qimissung]

I feel all the force of the sadness and longing for this not to be, for the grief that you will be forced to wear and endure and feel. It hurts, grief does, and nothing is more shocking than life rendered into death. Your poem is amazing and eloquent, dara.

[blazeofglory]

penetrating!

[The Walker]

it took me right there with you as if i was walking those steps through the room with you. Great work!