Beauty In Death

I watched her die tonight -
labored breath after labored breath.
Each of us holding ours wondering
which would be her last.
Time stopped in that room; with air so heavy
only those who've witnessed
a person fading
-firsthand-
could ever understand.

And we waited.

Each of us secretly hoping|praying|pleading
this breath as the last.
Not out of hatred - no -
out of desperation. pity. grief.
In death she clings to life
prolonging the inevitable.

Ashamed for her, taking turns
wiping spit from her lips

We waited.

There is no beauty in death.

No peace.
There is only pain.
There is only shame.
Morticians feign pride by painting the dead
to make us forget the last pitiful looks of the dying.

I watched her die tonight.

The last breath was the most labored.
There was no final moment of clarity
no resolution
no last look of release before the end.

One moment she was there
and
the next she was gone.

We stopped waiting
and sighed.


Then it was done.