When The Dying Are Unveiled
(Four Poems of the Apocalypse )
Battle of Six Feet / Mark Mosley
They die alone now;
jet pilots soaring solo upward
muffled voices sucked into machines
speaking a language we recognize
but too distant to quite understand
until their plastic faces harden
and eyes glaze over like clouds
breathing in rhythm into the beyond.
We watch them curiously like fish
in an aquarium fluorescent behind glass;
heads inside our own bubbles,
yellow suits and blue rubber gloves,
coiled tubes floating around our bodies.
We are all eyes, theirs and ours.
Words are too hard to produce,
so we just look at each other, blinking.
They are in the air.
We are from the sea.
They look down for support.
We look up to them.
We are all in proper uniform
gathered company at the foot of the bed;
and then we slowly float away from them.
For soldiers only six feet away,
there is a vast space between us.
Read Part III: Burning Up
Battle of Six Feet: Copyright 2021 by Mark Mosley. All rights reserved.