The wind blowing leaves and grass over this green place,
Like a new-born baby’s hand gliding across its parent’s face.
The trees bending towards their sides,
Almost blown over to the floor.
Like suffering cold fingers unable to stretch out of their claw.

Night taking from the day rays stealing.
I know the feeling,
Nights with hands held towards the ceiling.
I know this feeling,
I’m fully aware of my ties.
Like eyes seeking out but becoming lost in the skies.

In these nights the same question is asked of myself;
Am I like all of the rest?
Sharing not the name of father’s,
But the home of others.
Related by distance,
Living beyond loved one’s death.

Those white, bleached walls have a sound of their own.
Muffled by machines with tubes snaking to your bed throne.
The smell of suffering and anxiety was there,
Overwhelmed me but shed not a single tear.

I stood and smiled like a child:
“I’ll see you when I get back.”
It’s not that I lacked the love to say:
“I want to hold your hand and wish to stay.”

A month passed, that day of my return.
There was nothing to come back to,
Yet I did, to miss you.
You sleep in the night,
Yet the waters of life still flow.
Poisoned and black the river ebb and sway,
Running into my legacy to which I turn away.

My answer is yes,
I am like all the rest.
Wishing to sacrifice anything,
For a chance to alter what had gone before.
My desires are selfish and vain,
Return the love that soothed my pain.

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