Can you believe it?
Three years of the same routine,
The same IV tubing,
The same need for air.
Can you hear it?
His rasping breath,
His cackle at a stupid pun,
His woozy, drug-filled voice.
He travelled the world
In a wheelchair.
His mother and father always at his side.
The last time I ever saw his face
Was in eighth grade.
He was wearing a mask
And an oxygen tank.
He couldn't stand on his own,
But the whole grade stood up with him and clapped.
And clapped.
And clapped.
But now, he's dead.
Three years of chemo,
Lung fluid,
Tumors,
X-rays,
Surgeries.
He's dead.
He didn't even get to make it to his seventeenth.
And he never will.
Because my friend
Is dead.
YOU ARE READING
Poems That I Form
PoetryI ask for no comments, votes, or anything. This is a place I can rant quietly without anyone needing to be a mandated reporter.
