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Consumption Of Tuberculosis

Poem

By Paul CrockerPublished 3 years ago 2 min read
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On a winter's night, John Keats returned home.

He was cold, wet and alone.

He felt a little under the weather but he chose to ignore.

It was a luxary he could not afford.

Something inside of him was changing.

Like the cells inside were rearranging.

He soon took himself to bed.

Looking forward to resting his head.

Charles saw his friend and it made him shudder.

As he began to cough and splutter.

"Bring the light towards my face."

Blood splatters had stained his pillow case.

"I know that blood, it is arterial blood" he did cry.

"That drop of blood is my death warrant, I must die."

Charles got frustrated and held onto his friend.

" Do you think Fanny wants to see your life end?"

Through the night they devised a plan.

To save the life of this dying man.

Charles was instructed to lock the door.

Then retrieve a pouch from a barely used drawer.

"Are they all there? Check, man check!"

With shaking hands, Charles did so and began to inspect.

"Now pass me that liquor, it will numb the pain."

Charles had started to think this idea was insane.

"Perhaps you would be better with professional care."

"Get out, if it is too much to bear."

Charles stayed firmly in the dying poet's presence.

"I haven't got long, timing is of the essence."

"Find the small knife, the one that is thin."

The gruesome deed was about to begin.

Charles made a "T" shaped incision across his chest.

And proceeded to peel the first layer of skin from the breast.

John began to breath with rapid desperation now.

As a bead of sweat fell from Charles's brow.

"Now pull those muscles apart."

Doing so he revealed the poet's heart.

" I can not see, there is too much blood."

Charles knocked the lamp over causing it to smash and thud.

The bed linen caught fire without hesitation.

Giving both men a hopeless sensation.

"Bugger it, Charles, sew me up quick."

The flames across the bed continued to lick.

Charles stitched the flesh the best he could.

But feeling the heat, he knew it was no good.

He screamed out in agony as the fire attached itself to his leg.

John grasped towards him as he could not speak to beg.

"I am done for, John, God speed."

And with that he let the flames succeed.

John managed to clamber to the door and turn the key.

Thinking he would be safe and free.

Opening the door, a rush of air went past.

Creating an infernal blast.

He imagined himself with Fanny on a romantic stroll.

As the fire consumed him body and soul.

sad poetry
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About the Creator

Paul Crocker

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