Postcards
There is the quiet hum Of a T.V. on silent Sterilized white walls Everything is so quiet Yet so very loud Footsteps echo in the halls Whispers sound like screams As they fall on dying ears Do you know who you are Or why you are here? Who ever knows Who ever will As they roll Another one away Down a long hallway That they never come back from He is the one who remains Locked in by See through curtains That cast shadows around him And thousands of tubes He is always alone No one ever at his side No family No friends No memories in the night To keep him company In the darkest hours of night Where the ghosts are so close And death stands at the foot Of his skinny little bed Telling him to come along It is finally your time There is just a pile of old postcards That he bought for himself What feels like a lifetime ago From all the places he had been And said he would never forget But now he can’t remember Anything at all He forgets where he is And who he is He is separated and detached From reality By what he lacks Waiting all alone In a white washed room With only a T.V. on mute For company And a stack of empty postcards All waiting for the inevitable The one thing he can never forget That death is lingering So very close He can feel its breath Whispering in his ear In a hospital room where Lethe Swept him away from all he knew And ever loved For him there is no future Or a past He is floating in an abyss Stuck between heaven and hell As the monitor beeps Slower and slower The man turns his head And looks at the postcards With old weary eyes He reaches with his weighted hands Shaking and fumbling As he picks one up A little smile on his dried cracked lips I remember He whispers but no one hears As the monitor stops And a lone tear Slips from his eye Staining the postcard As it falls Drifting slowly to the ground Remembered at last
