The care home cometh

Its beige walls are waiting,
they grin as I'm wheeled in.
The stench of boiled veg
brings up the words
I can only write in bile,
 
My gripped tight chest
snatches at breaths,
liver spotted fingers
clutch the oxygen mask
as I suck out this cylinder.
 
Decay is now translucent skin,
hung on bone coat hangers,
memories spread so thin
they runs like mop-bucket bleach,
into the cracks of broken tiles.
Told to sleep, I'm laid out alabaster
under starch tight linen,
 
Prepared by tepid bowls,
a fighter who can't lift the final blow.
As the heavy stained curtain
draws over my head,
I ask my eyes if they've seen death
and tell my hands they need to beg.