Whitechapel

Eyes unfocused blearily stare
tied with tubes and greasy hair
a weakened state with fading skin,
resigned to a cancer within.

Yellowed feet from twisted sheets
his son arranges with hesitant care
faltering words after silent beats,
grey-blue fingers resting there.

Tubes ivy wind the bleached sheets
biting in through veins and wrists.
To the left a man in stoic silence sits
he cannot speak;
his greying throat is slit.