What’s the purpose in trying to distil
my sight, thoughts, the objects of fear.
Stethescopes, chairs, syringes, hope.
      Death’s not real, it’s just for life.
I watch the other patients’ eyes.
I wonder if there’s anything there
worth mentioning here, there’s probably not.
There probably is, I don’t really care.
Squirty soap, Lucozade, grapes.
       It’s not for them, it’s not for you.
It’s something solid I have to extract,
unflinching essence I need to become.
      Bereavement leaflets, directions to wards.
No pity or point, directions to truth.