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,
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
To explain
To answer
To justify
To insist
That it stop
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
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
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

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