A grey film envelopes the eyes,

A shell replaces what once was.

The body is there,

But the soul is no more.


Death hath not taken

What once settled within.

A disease fed upon that which was inside,

Till a shell lay empty and broken in mind.


No creature or being could enter such hell.

Pardon the disease that feasted on high.

Shrivelled and alone was the creature within.

Yet something knocked on the doors of heaven.


A seed of hope,

The cure to pain?

A cure, it is not.

No, it is love.


Love not for the man

Who holds the hand of a shell.

Yet rather love

For the babe at her breast.


Yet nothing could stop this creature

Of hell and pain and death.

Not a whim of magic,

Or the love a new born child.


Years may pass,

Centuries even.

The disease will linger on the edge

Of pure love, hope, eternity.


How does a simple, incurable thing

Become so meaningful in one’s life?

For revenge is taken

Upon those who forget to listen.


Now Death do us apart,

It is real and true.

Not a child or friend

Could bring what once was.


Here is Death,

Aided by such a disease.

Here are the ups and the downs

Of a disease that hooked.


A name you ask,

For a disease such as this?

Bi-polar, depression,

Maybe insanity is correct.


For no disease such as this

Can be cured with medicine or doctors.

Only Death is the way

To ease such pain.


Selfish it is not

To want to leave this land.

For there is nothing here

For the simple shell.

This poem is about: 
My family


Grant-Grey Porter Hawk Guda

Powerful expression! 

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