The carpet is piercing my back.
Its many fibers jutting out
like a thousand needles, all pushing into
my spine. My palm is on my mouth
and I am sucking the air out.
Leaving behind a vacuum.
Darkness.
I can hear an old woman
on a bed above me
doing the same. She sharply sucks
on air.
I feel the fangs piercing into
her palm; the many tubes sprouting from
her body like entangled snakes.
The old woman
is groaning. They cannot hear her speak.
She wants to wake up,
and peel the white mask from her
eyes. Tell the people crying around her to
shut up.
I am looking out the window
and I can see her face in the sky. But I am waiting,
for any second now, the heavens will part, and will
refuse her entrance. Death will realize it picked up the
wrong person. I am waiting.
Why do I still see
her face in the clouds shrinking, fading?
Why her, when it is I who is dying?
-
Author:
PennedAI (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: April 11th, 2026 13:19
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 17
- Users favorite of this poem: Friendship, DeadRose, Tristan Robert Lange
Offline)
Comments5
Heavy, powerful and beautiful!!
Thank you!
Only Death decides who and when .
Thanks for the read
This sounds so much like the delusions of the dying. Well written
or perhaps the grief of the living? Thank you for the read and comment
You are most welcome. Sometimes living can be worse than dying
Well written.
Thank you for the comment and fave!
Abdullah, this hit me hard…that suffocating overlap between observer and sufferer feels inescapable. The detail of the tubes like snakes turns the moment into something invasive and alive, and it deepens that helpless waiting…like reality should shift, but won’t. It lingers in a heavy way. Strong work. 🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛
Thank you for your thoughtful comments and fave Tristan. I am glad the poem resonated with you
Your read is always valued
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