It is an abhorrent thing, this incarceration of your vulnerability,
Profoundly cruel in the way you were beaten
To your knees, blithely unaware it was a battle lost
For your health and wellbeing. It was dreadful to witness
Your vigour evaporate, sapped by a merciless agent
Of discontinuity, sold into the slavery of a sickness
That debilitates your will from within.
I am shocked, too, at my smallness in the face of it,
Cowed by the enormity beyond, which threatens
The core of our being as one. And seeing you pale
And traumatised in a hospital bed, whispering
In a tiny, distant voice, the fire in your eyes a flicker
Where it blazed before,
I am unashamedly terrified.
And yet you inspire me with your selflessness;
Though sorely ill you strive to ease my ragged sense
Of right and wrong which leaves me devastated.
But I can think clearly, it is me who should be
Abed in the hospital ward instead of you. It is I
Who should shield you from the pain and uncertainty.
Truly, I should be suffering there instead of you.
As it is I fear the melancholy of this empty house
Which echoes with the effervescent lives we lived
Before this cursed disease arrived to blight
Our fragile happiness. As it is I fear the worst
In every living moment, hoping for reprieve,
Fearing for my hope, and caring for you such
My aching heart should burst.
Peachester May, 2005