Down for the count, on the couch, the lights have long gone out
But there might be someone home.
Rest assured, she’d prefer to be preserved, like a piece of furniture,
Like a statue made of stone.
But the heart goes on beating,
With the trickled tube feedings,
As she melts into her seat,
It makes sense to me
That she’ll always be a great reminder
That she always seemed like such a fighter.
And if you miss her, just assume that she’s at piece.
Her own monument of who she used to be.
Quality, dignity, if it were me, rather live to infinity
Than go before my time.
If you must, do your best, pound her chest,
Because to let her finally rest would be more heinous of a crime
Any way to avoid the sting of misplaced guilt.
The final day, the end of Spring.
What flower wilts, just to bloom again?
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