euthanasia, a tale through poem

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The air was a horde of herbal taste,
The sky was a party of dancing clouds,
There are petals, scattering aimlessly,
Beautiful they are, wondrous they are.
But they were red, deep red that caught her eyes,
She twitched, in a small movement, nobody knows.

Her vessel no longer obeys her, waiting---waiting,
waiting---was all it does, she have no tears,
No pain, nothing but her mind waving aimlessly...
As the petals that flies outside the window,
The window of a prison, she abhor this prison,
She hates it, though her life is normal as every vessel.

Under the stars she open her eyes, without pain,
But pain was in her heart, nobody knows,
No freedom, no happiness, nothing at all.
A fragment of her senses remains, vulnerable...
The starless night, she wanted to walk down,
To where the people are, to walk down the hall.

To be with people, to be free from this prison,
To free from this imprisonment, To be active,
Oh, what have she done to deserve this sentence?
She lay there, on the bed, without any regret but hope,
Machines imprisoned her, accompanied by a nurse, a doctor,
That tracked her way, her health, her choices, everything.

On the morning, the rays shatters the night,
A person, not a nurse, not a doctor,
But her daughter and husband, hopeful she were
But she wondered, their dressing was peculiar,
A black veil that her daughter don,
A black bouquet of rose that her husband carried.

They speak words that were deafening,
Of “ Vegetitive” and “leaving”, But she knows,
She tries to stop, but nobody knows,
Her effort in vain, vain in red rose petals,
She were still, silent as a beautiful vase,
She were there, but nobody knew.

They come at last, a doctor and a nurse,
They all stand besides her, smiling softly,
Softly they were, but tearful, tears drop from their eyes,
They scatters rose petals on her, red and white,
Innocent and sorrow, she knows, she tries, nobody cared,
They pulled the machine, she twitched, and were gone.

Oh,What have she done to deserve this sentence?
Her vessel was dead, she were alive,
Slowly she dies, nobody knows, she were carried.
She sees a brown texture, of the brown ground,
She were imprison, in a coffin, not a room,
Oh,What have she done to die at choice, choice of others?

Every night, a wind of red rose petals arrives,
A shadow wonder around the room,
Of herbal taste, of a white texture,
Where a nurse and a doctor once stayed.
She wonders, aimlessly as she did,
Where she have died without freedom.





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Margarita said...
Jul. 25, 2010 at 5:00 pm
Wow Khanh, I'd love to know where you got your inspiration from for this poem. Very thought provoking and eerie. Well done Buddy. Your poetic prowess is developing.
 
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