burnt out, trampled, bruised and scratched up
tattered and shredded into bits
was it dark purpose, cruel design
as the daylight waned
and darkness usurped the land
that I was made against my will
to face the dying and the dead
made to be Charon rowing the rickety boat
across that lifeless river

I will remember their lifeless eyes
the heart still beating, the lungs still drawing breath
but the soul knew no more, trickled out,
evaporated
in that final agony that is wordless
the only cry a weak whisper escaping from my lips
in that bleak despair of those sterile rooms
the darkness of bitter morning looming outside the windowpanes
reminding me that we are, in the end, just lifeless meat

I have mastered the art of crushing hope
stamping out the sparks of miracles
to offer nothing more than a peaceful death
(but it is as I have always known it
the dying may suffer, but it is the living who must bear it)
send sweet nepenthe dripping through your veins
and it is I who must remember
who will whisper your name in the dark quiet night
in the silence before dreaming
in the space between spaces

It is the weeping of the still-living that wound me
thousands of tiny needles and knives
and the dreams and hopes of what might be
shredded and mangled by cold, hard science
the mathematics of probability
and Time’s unstoppable arrow
even the stars are torn asunder, obliterated into soul-sucking darkness
given enough time

Those final breaths, hard, and labored,
the body, unthinking, still aches to live
but all I can promise is unending sleep

It is in this quiet moment
the cold silence of dark winter night hanging over me
that I catalog the names of the dead
whisper their names like a litany
and pray for dreamless sleep.