Final Night
When they spoke of her,
he held on tightly to the rail,
she was much thinner
then he remembered,
and very pale,
with a moist gleam
about her face that suggested fever,
her past was history,
so it would seem,
her future a mystery,
that only God could solve,
and she never fulfilled a single dream,
her skin was dry and thin,
as he fought back the cries,
and looked into her sick,
tortured eyes,
all of his focus just tips,
as the right words
evaporated from his lips,
her situation bleak,
and it was too painful
for her speak,
she moved, but she was very weak,
her voice was mild,
she was his mother,
and he was her child,
her ghost was heard,
and death was imminent,
as he hungered after her every word,
although she was losing the fight,
her memories were keen,
holding his hand close and tight,
reluctant to say this was her final night.
© 2011 Frank Atanacio