My Father's Death Poem by Barbara Buxton

When my father died I was glad.
His eyes had become windows
of pain.

He thrashed around in a bed that was
his jail;
He tried to make sense of it all
but there is no sense
to hell.

The cancer had made him a
living cadaver.

I wished for him to be a bird instead
that could fly
from the window;
Or a flower in a field looking up
at the sun:
being drenched by the rain only
to dry and look up
again.