By C.R. Daugherty
The man lay,
dying in his hospital bed.
For weeks, they had
unseasoned food with salt on the side,
a saline drip over his bed …
He rose from his retractable mattress
and began to chant, a long litany
of words often sung, though
not often together …
Buildings around the hospital began to fall,
yet his hospital and bed still remained.
He rumbled evanescence to the mountainsides,
only to have them fall in the wake of his words …
They came in, the orderlies, and plastered
masking tape over his mouth.
He died as the hospital fell,
“I write for illumination, exposition, expression, and aesthetic portrayal of a beautiful world.” – the writer