Breathing room
For Peter O'Hanlon.
No one dared breathe
In the breathing room:
No sound except gasps,
Awful reaching after of
Every one single breath
While heads hung low
And hands were clasped
And faces betrayed the
Pain of helplessness.
The struggle to bear was
As vain as that for breath
While the pencil thin victim,
Oblivious to everything but
The need to hang on to the
Very last breath he owned.
The silence of the room is
A symptom of awe, of fear,
Of sheer terror lest a sound
Break the "mortal coil that
Flesh is heir to" and Death,
The inevitable, abrupt one
Should burst the door down.
How many more draws, how
Many more gaping sighs can
Be plucked from the air? Like
A man drowning in the excess
Of oxygen he lies, surfeited
By the very thing that keeps
Him afloat, bobbing, and yet
Sinking slowly in the deep.
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