Halls of the Dying

Late at night, when only a few ghost-like workers are stirring
I enter the hallowed halls of the dying.
Like a crypt, everything dark, I feel my way from doorway to doorway
hearing the groans and the cries of the dying.
Ghastly sounds reverberate through these forbidden caverns;
lost souls forever grasping for salvation.
Creeping along, my senses alert for hidden dangers
I pause in front of one room and
the smell tells me where I am.
Stepping into the room, almost stumbling over tubing and wires,
I see the form of something on the bed;
it’s chest rising and falling slowly.
Peering more closely at it
I see my father’s body, and my face.
I recoil in horror…


Chuck Connors, January 6, 2010