The Dying Room - Poem by Reinhard Stobbe
A light, its amber glow a fleeting thought,
shines through the drapes into the Dying Room.
They call it that, so unashamedly, as if to say
that we depart this earth upbeat and clutching life,
a voluntary act, conceived by time and force of will.
The nurses whisper now, sending the student in to see
if time has caught the soul and torn it from the womb
of her, whose name will be forgotten soon by all,
only the shyster may remember her with fondness still,
he had been charged with her affairs and left to take
all necessary steps and keep a bundle for himself.
She'd liked his wavy hair, his taste for good cigars
and most of all the ever present smile he had reserved
exclusively for her. He'd called her 'DEAR', which
in itself was more than most would even think of her,
her man of 60 years had been a tyrant to the teeth,
and when she freed herself that morning on the balcony,
a small but potent amber capsule added to Earl Gray,
and freedom reigned again, and peace. That I must say.
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