Choppy. I know. Editing will hopefully take place for this and previous posts in the near future.
the steady handed soldier,
the stagehand cloaked in black.
You recorded the interviews
the tales of pain and suffering,
the patients searching for peace.
You were there for the first fifteen
departures, procedures, final sessions--
pick your euphemism, Margo,
it's all the same in the end.
In the end all conditions are terminal.
Your brother, Jack, only agreed when
his patient told him: "There is not
any joy, not any joy in life."
Everything is conditional.
Your brother agreed,
"I know that, I know that."
No joy, not any joy,
but what of your silence, Margo?
Thanatron is Death Machine in Greek.
I found an image of your stone, Margo.
Head stone rubbings have given way
to amateur photographers, internet
historians and genealogists.
I found you buried
in gravestone search engines
death cult databases.
Is it wrong to smile,
discovering you here?
You know better than anyone
what the end looks like--the mess
left behind, the survivors taken
under your wing moments after you
and Jack sent their loved ones to rest.
You helped form support groups in
every town touched by the Doctor
and his Thanatron. You brought them
together after he tore them apart.
He was Dr. Death, but Margo, be true,
you were no Bedside Angel either.
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