On flesh once soft and supple, Now riddled with sores and pain, The body lies still and helpless, Its once vibrant spirit waning. The bed, once a place of comfort, Now a prison of unyielding pain, The weight of immobility Takes its toll with each passing day. Bedsores, like angry red badges, Announce the body's slow decline, A cruel reminder of its fragility, And the ravages of time. Oh, how we take for granted The simple freedom to move, Until it's too late to escape The slow death of immobility's groove. So let us cherish our bodies, And the mobility they allow, For bedsores are a reminder That the freedom to move is sacred now.
By Sarva G
3 thoughts on “Bedsores”
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