Blank canvases untouched,
a rosary never purchased.
The door marked off
with painter's tape.
Your final days
come to rest in this sterile,
unfamiliar place.
The elephant.
The nothing words.
Staring down at
something resembling you.
Wrapped in bruises and fluous tubes.
The hum of the TV.
I can't remember anything
except for the patterns on the floor.
You were there and then you weren't.
Every put off promise thinking you'll pull through
broken by the news.
© Emily E Johnson
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