Mouldy Bread, Left In A Plastic Bag Poem by Chris G. Vaillancourt

I watch the foul blood
drain from my wounds.
Clean it from my skin.
Apply a band-aide. Pray.

I watch them take blood
from my arm to test.
They do not flinch.
I do.
It is their job.
It is my life.
Different perspectives.
Different views.

I listen to doctors' talk.
Telling me what to expect.
I hear the words,
the serious words.
The words spoken
in formal empathy.

Mouldy bread,
left in a plastic bag,
has a very peculiar odour.
It smells of decay,
of wasting away.
Strong hope
now
scattered
and
left
undone.

I watch the blood drain.
I watch the yellow puss
flow out with the red.
Diseased tissue.
Diseased flesh.

I will hear nothing more.
Wipe the mess away
with
a
tissue
paper.