White curtains split the light into a spray of
Formless foam that, with the tide and ebb of air
From the vents, paints a lazy rhythm
Upon the dimly lit walls, and if you were not careful
You would think you were drowning in its silence
The quiet whirr and click of the machines do not allow
Such dreams to breathe however, so inside that space there is only
A strange sort of activity: there is never anyone
Doing anything there (they always forget), and so perhaps
It is an illusion created by his stillness
No one remembers the last time he moved or spoke or
Saw or any of those other things that would remind you that he once was
Someone who laughed and cried and hurt like us; like him
That memory has sunk into the depths where light has no meaning
And even sound is but a fantasy waiting to fade
But what I do remember is the last time he opened his eyes and how
I looked into them but could not tell if the man inside was
Broken and hanged and stretched upon the rack of his disease
Pining for the mercy of the end, or if instead there was a flying banner and
Beneath it a crusader who raged against the dying of the light