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'Your illness is not curable,
we need to pull the plug right now,
conditions that are terminal
cannot be paid for by us all.'
Yes, Terry, you will die too soon,
the world around you does not care.
It could be money or indifference,
but I will never lie to you.
It's always money, it eats the soul
they make excuses, they give good reasons.
You are a veggie Terry, truly,
baptised by those who think they can
decide for others, for their fate
and what it all comes down to, hear
is that you are so very useless,
you need the care of those who do,
or those who sponge you with reluctance
but take your money with contempt
on neutral faces, you are here
through great benevolence of peers
which has, for fifteen lonely years
proved not to you but to all others
that homo sapiens does have compassion.
Though now a fork has come in sight,
the road's no longer pointing straight
an obstacle takes up much space
inside the minds of those who live,
with faculties in normal order
and power to regard the fork
a sign of God who delegates
his will to call you, Terry, home.
Don't you believe them, let me say
that arguments before the courts
are heavy with the legalese
that sober halls repeat in echos
of 'justice will be served', we pray.
'Her illness is not curable,
we need to pull the plug right now,
conditions that are terminal
cannot be paid for by us all.'
A feeding tube is like a bottle
that nourishes the little ones
who are, unable to accomplish
what grown-ups know to live and thrive.
So, Terry do you know your crime
was that you lost the skill to eat
yet this great world has twisted words
it says you lost the will to live.
Herbert Nehrlich
Read poems about / on: money, justice, lost, lonely, believe, fate, power, world, home, god
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