I found death
A most comfortable
Gray

Outside my
Hospital window

As that morning
Grew polluted
Where each tree
Stood oddly
Still

Watching daylight
Imbue fog
Spread like smoke
Through each their
Branches

In what breeze
Came off that shoreline
Just besides
This island’s
Coast

Hearing patients
Down those halls
Echo sadness
I had witnessed

Since new winter
Saw them
Struggle

While December
Proved
Their fears

When remaining
Soaked with sweat

Calmly trapped
And bound by
Plastic

Slave to fevers
God intended
Would remove us
Soon
From Earth

For that illness
Offered peace

And its dreaming
Meant surrender

Learning life
Was passing
Slowly
On this bed
No man
Should rest

Till his end
Might really come
If such silence
Should take
Notice

Plaguing rooms
Like empty shadows
Across faces

Scared
But wrong

Praying dimness
Was their
Fate

Not the sun
As once
Suggested

Sensing brightness
Broke composure
Stirring naps
Forever dark

Lacking heaven
I did face

Losing sight
And breath
Together

Waking somewhere
Barely present

Yet assured
Things weren’t
Done.

– J. Pigno