I cast sacred mantras like anchors
while machines practice alchemy
changing life signs to colors and lines.
Death and life claim equanimity.
I don't agree.
I never accepted them as equals.
The bed fails my father's height.
My will fails to force the decision.
"Who's there?"
My father reaches for a phantom
passing at the foot of his bed.
I fear angels.
Unsteady hope leaves me only ash
paste of tears.
Death remains companion to my vigil.