An old bag of bones,
sitting upright
despite itself,
Waxy flesh
sure sign of decay
under way already,
Nauseating smell
from disinfectant
and unchanged diaper,
Repugnant sores
that keep on slipping
from under flimsy blanket,
Barely audible sounds
trying hard
to be words,
All leaving no doubt:
body's not to be trusted,
for sure.
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wow. reminds me of our stint with hospice care for my father in law. good one.
ReplyDeleteYes, serving the dying is such a powerful meditation.
ReplyDeleteYes...I'll ditto the wow. Powerful poem. Initial thoughts of fear when reading it. That I too, one day, will be there (although maybe I won't...maybe it will be sooner). If I am there, I hope I can find acceptance and be grateful for the body in whatever state it is in.
ReplyDeleteFear, Nate, and also help in letting go of clinging to body, that which is predestined to such pitiful ending. That body does not belong to me, nor to you. It does not obey to our wishes. It is on predetermined course of suffering and obliteration.
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