![]() Still Life by Karen Gordon Still life Still life Life is breath, is mind, is ears His life is still here, though very still Sometimes he yells No Pushes away hands That try to give what he does not want Or maybe even need. He is still him In the still waning time, Night and day become the same Yet each breath spends another hour He will not give in, he will not give up Determined no one will tell him How to do this life, this time, This dying. They broke the mold. He is himself, still life Still living to his dying days A furrowed brow and then The morphine smooths the lines, takes the pain. A hand maybe he will hold He pushes the covers away, needs the air on his groin There is nothing forbidden his last times, his parting days Now alone even when his family keeps him company For 10, 15, 30 minutes. His time alone, on his terms Though surely not the way he would have wanted Body thin and bruised from old falls. Still. Still as a leaf on wind Crashing, not floating, to earth. His mind comes and goes Words cannot find their way from his mouth Eyes closed mostly He is not waiting for death. He pushes internally, not knowing with what A beautiful man, even now, Lines of his jaw, fair and soft, softer than ever before He is not waiting He is participating Inside where we cannot see His inner demons, his inner angels Come to visit, entities more vivid Than we, on the outside. He sleeps with them if he is sleeping at all He moans to them – a beckon or a rebuff The strength he lived with keeps him here. His time is near but unknown He is himself. Still Alive Such as this is Until the last. Life is this now. For him for us Until we die.
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