Behind the curtains
In a sterile cubicle
lays a senile man
with bony, delicate limbs
With milky eyes
starring into chilly fluorescent lights.
We stayed by this man for almost three days,
his wife must have lost count of the hours,
as she reminds him with a voice softer than a whisper,
of erstwhile memoirs and adventures.
Sleep deprivation was a small price to pay,
for people like him
so loving, good and kind,
Anyone but him deserves to die.
But who would’ve known before
that neath his jaundiced skin,
was a plague, spreading like fire,
fading his essence, making him tired.
A loquacious man,
strangled by silence.
I was walking in the corridor,
where eerie quietude echoed,
Suddenly comes a set of ragged breaths
that called me back to the unquiet room,
only to see his panicking children and collapsing wife.
The disturbing sound lasted for a…
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