Bedded.

She lies in a clinically impersonal white room.

 

An uncovered, clenched, claw-like hand trembles,

as if it had been, a closed decaying, wind shaken, flower,

her eyes, too weak to raise and, see me.

 

Piercing an arm, devoid of normal colour, a conduit linked needle,

supplying medicial hope.

 

The space between us, needs to be closer still, so that I am within,

her struggling whispers, hearing distance

 

any closer, and I'm certain, that I would have felt as though,

I was with her,

in her living Hell.