I don’t know what to say to the dying

This is a rough sketch of something I've been working on. It's not exactly perfect.

This is for World Poetry Day. It evens rhymes in parts.

It is...
I don’t know what to say to the dying

Photo by Cecil Beaton, Gwili Andre, 1932

I don’t know what to say to the dying.

What worth to my words by the morning.  

I don’t know what to say to the dying.

Would they hear the obituary I wrote them.  

I don’t know what to say to the dying.

I say it’s OK, it's fine, and I’ve no idea why.  

I’m no voice of comfort to the dying.

I hold their hand tight so I know I’m not a monster.  

I don’t know what to say to the dying.

So I listen, but they never ask questions of me.

So I listen, and I hope they can speak of things they see.

So I often believed a death bed was as comfortable as the life led.

Then I needed to forgive me and them for all words un-said.

Because communication is breaking and can’t be mended.

When bones, cartilage and shallow cold breaths are at the last of a life ended.

When everything is failing and crashing and giving up the ghost.

God knows, what was important in this life?

Why do I never say goodbye?

It always troubles me.

I don’t know what to say to the dying.

I find it easier to talk about my working day.  

I don’t know what to say to the dying.

I try to talk in uplifting ambiance imagery.  

I don’t know what to say to the dying.

I tell them who they’ll meet, I’ve no idea why.  

I collect pieces of time from the dying.

Not like teeth so I know I’m not a monster.