I think of Liz, alone in her chair
The flickering lightness of her television
Consumed with the hysteria of the age
Funnelled from the outside chaos
Into a panicked square, on the other side of the room
Liz used to be trapped
The thick white calcite of four score years
Locking her bones, a tongue frightened
To curl through words, I helped her breathe
One or two relaxed sighs, and lapping up
Cake and custard, she kissed my hand
Thank you for visiting me in my prison
Does she sit there still, folded in her chair?
A ticking clock timing the speech quivering
From the television set, with an unshared remote
By her side, no voices from her generation
Asking to change the channel
Liz never saw the carers fix up
A sling for someone else, or hear them ask
It's good for you, you need your meds
Liz would have stared with her fascinated eyes
I think of Liz free in her prison
Free from other people's choices
Other people who've messed up, said sorry
Now I have only my Liz
And they have said goodbye to theirs.
@nepion_boreas17
