And there, helpless, 

sunk in the darkness, 

 

as shadow-cast death 

cloaks the walls, 

 

stood behind it all, 

the father scarcely 

 

notices the scattered 

paper spat across the floor, 

 

of past prescriptions or
the emptied bowls and jars... 

 

the mother in a hallowed 

nest of praying arms 

 

finds dawn whisper in 

on softening feet 

 

whilst the doctor,
rider of the white horse, 

 

faithful and true,
looks upon the child’s face, 

 

pale as she slips through, 

given to Sheol. 

​

​

Dylan Squires