the only color in his face is sick,
the purple lips of illness in a face
of paperwhites. this gaping slash he licks
in ev'ry moment he and Pa Time race.
There's not long yet, for he can barely speak,
and tremors move his withered old man hands.
who knows when death arrives, when illness peaks
and eyes stay shut, when Life itself remands.
grandfather, he lies there, a man no more,
a bag of bones that clicks and rattles sharp,
and while we wait we listen for his snore,
the only outward sign of a beating heart.
we wait like birds, as sick as he, just not
as noble - we're impatient to watch him rot.
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