The Good Death
by gregbrown
She said she was ready.
Whispers making their way through the warm mist in the reeds.
If we can read through the magic of tubes
forcing the breath of life: One, two, three.
Should we?
Replace function with hands of man,
where we breed our gears of artificiality.
The burgundy polyvinyl is in the corner
with the used cotton sheets.
It has grown thin under our backs.
The bed is now home, where the shelter of sheets
will not leave.
Each wall is a rail that our fingers collect.
Are we formed, broken, forged, torn, burned, annealed, refined?
As sharp as breath I cannot take.
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