Terror-filled evenings,
53 last year alone.
The nights before the days
Where we heard ourselves groan
As we climbed into the car.
Didn’t need to drive far,
But we felt our hearts thumping,
Like heading to war.
We braced for the news,
Which was rarely good.
The doctor shared results
That felt more like insults.
We saw all hope fade.
We were shocked and stunned.
We cried, felt betrayed
Hearing no more could be done.
He squeezed my hand, surveying the place,
“Don’t let that be me” was all he could say.
Hollow eyes, hopeless looks,
Tubes, needles, wheelchairs, ports.
A menagerie of unrecognizable beings
Being tortured mercilessly.
After visit 53
He begged to be set free.