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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
I wrote this when I was a nurse. I disliked the way we dictated to people, especially when they were dying. We took it all out of their control and made them die the way we wanted them to, not as it should have been.

Submitted: June 06, 2013

A A A | A A A

Submitted: June 06, 2013



There are footsteps

Live (or dead)

That pound the floor

Around your bed,

From people you have never known,

(Never will),

Yet who smother you

When you

Are ill;

Who make decisions

That you can't take,

Believe that in your

Surrendered state

You are incapable of riding the waves

That still shift and swell within your brain,

Of holding your fate in

Your own two hands

(As once you did

With wedding banns),

While each and every tiny quest

Is greeted with a (we know best)

No can do,

You can't even have a poo

Without a helping hand;

While huddled chats at bed's (dead)end

Do not involve lest they offend

The sensibilities of your

Dying ear,

Though you've had such thoughts

Every year,

Since you don't know when,

Because you always feared The Very End,

How you'd have no say,

As to how your life would

Ebb away.

© Copyright 2017 Chris Bradbury. All rights reserved.

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