people, white-clad, coated
in silk made stagnant
with cleanliness.
they come, and
they tell me -
he's getting
"progressively worse"
each day.

oh, the irony.
for isn't that a contradiction;
in more ways than one?
if he's getting worse,
how is it "progressive"?
and he's the doctor,
after all;
who takes care
of the caretaker?

one more day
before he "dies"
and they let me in -
though it's a few hours too late
to say
goodbye.
he asked me,
some time ago,
to sing songs of woe
for his shattered lights,
for when the time comes, he
knows
that he will have no faith.
for him, there will be no other crossing-over.