A Nervous System
There is a spot in town we go
As often as we can, we show;
Next of kin sleeps sound inside,
And no place other can he bide.
Its walls are cold and old the paint
Sweet smell of death the air doth taint;
Youth and age yet haunt the halls,
Where maids of mercy answer calls.
In tiny rooms, or depths of drapes
The barest breath of life escapes;
Cancer lies in wing and ward,
Where broken bargain with their Lord.
And yet the fools still smoking are
Hooked up to lines, they can’t go far;
Burgled beds left warm to wait
‘Til once more patient falls prostrate.
Inside he lies with bed-wound deep
We stand and watch him in his sleep;
Dopamine, the brain invades,
As slowly, sure his flower fades.
He waits – we wait to learn his place
Where next he goes to end the race;
Close his days in care-filled home,
Before he reach the Pleasure Dome.
Kathleen Mortensen ©2008