The role call of the dead.

There is a trail of dead ones,

the loved,

the honoured,

the valued,

the precious,

All now lost to this illness, in death,

Negated away by the denial and untruth

Of the severe physical illness they did battle with

Every day.

My heart cries endlessly as I remember their names

The warriors who are with us no more

Gone to rest now.

But why? I cry.

I have to ask why?

I have to demand honesty.

Even though I do not get it

Yet still I must demand and demand again.

Their death demands we ask for integrity and truth.

But there is so little of it out there

All lost in compromise or outright denial and ignorance.

The dead grow,

Shockingly.

Loved ones depart out of the blue, without prior expectation.

The shock leaves tremors in the community of the sick still left behind,

Not knowing who will be next.

Fearing the worst

Yet hoping for the best.

There is so little truth.

There is such little accurate representation.

There is such little helpful information.

And even less reliable help.

No one knows any more if the diagnosis is even reliable.

If what I have is what you have

Or what they, who died, had either.

It is all such a deliberately orchestrated human tragedy.

And whilst we weep,

The names of the dead and their unjust suffering

Demands we do more

Somehow

To explain

To answer

To justify

To insist

That it stop

Now

Once and for all.

Their precious lives unfairly lost too soon.

Outrageously hidden in a fatigue lie

That did not represent them

Could not help them

Could only harm them.

As the long line builds

The role call of the dead

Grows

As does the unrest in my soul,

The indescribable suffering of all those living and dead

Could never be condoned

Acceptable or compensated for.

For it is unimaginable

Unreasonable

Unacceptable

And were it to be recognised and fully admitted

By those who should do so,

The tears of remorse would flood the whole universe

And the shame be so overwhelming

That people would turn their heads in shock at what has been done to us ( or not)

In the name of science and medicine and politics.

And people would hang their heads and never dare look up again

If they had any insight or honesty in their hearts

Of their contribution

To this unending torment,

Only silenced

By death itself.

Whilst the names and the faces

Linger tenderly

In the hearts of those who do know

And remember with love.

Linda Crowhurst