Poetry

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She covers her weathered face
With wrinkled hands,
Veins pushing against her flesh
With every flex of a finger…
Her knuckles ache
From years of hard labor
As she forces her hands
Through her hair,
And then back down on
Her soft, aging, cheeks.

Puddles fill her eyes
And drip to the floor,
Leaving echoes
Of melancholic non harmonic symphonies
Of swirling sounds
As the room spins around
Faster than her mind
And she is crying once more…

"When does this end?" she screams
Without volume,
But with every bit of intensity.
He takes her hand
And he feels helpless
As the preying cells continue
Their feeding on her body,
Relentlessly attacking their host
Because they can.
And I am on my knees again
Because it’s all I know to do.

~matthew eldridge

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