Game On Poem by Martin O'Neill

Not quite ghosts, they slide
In sussurations of slippers
Across vinyl passageways
Through rooms, trailing echoes
Of lives, family ties, people
Debrided, diminished and ravaged
By Divine whimsy.
Disease, decay and defilement
Of bodies, minds, personalities.
Respect flayed from emaciated frames
Replaced by limp robes
Bony ankles, drips, tubes and
Expressions of bewilderment as if
Lost, blindsided by life
Taken from behind whilst still vital
And unsuspecting of their
Vulnerability, openness, fragility.
Waylaid by horrors that only exist
Elsewhere, until the words 'I'm sorry..'
Cluching my dignity and hope
I accept the offer of robes and wristband but
Politely decline the mantle, softly descending,
Of dissolution and decay.
Go gentle into the night? I think not,
Game on.