Being There

The Common Man
lying in his bed,
dying.

Laboured breathing,
isolated,
from all he loves and who love him.

In the midst of a death dance, it’s all-consuming pain and fear,
downwards,
towards the dark and empty void.

He touches the bottom of the appalling darkness
- alone.

Yet in the death dance, something stirs,
rises,
calls his name.

Sensations, feelings,
emotions, madness!
Rise, rise out of this dreadful hour.

An all-consuming feeling to fight encroaches,
pushing, like saplings rising from the earth,
spring, rise, rise, push.

And breathe, and breathe,
as she holds his hand, he breathes,
he stirs, he rises.