That cold afternoon, when you sat
Still on your rocking chair, talking
To your mother who called
To share that she felt alone in
Her house amidst family,
I stood as a spectator that day,
Amongst many others passing by,
Lost in the ballads of your strength
You string to resurrect those you love.
While fools walked past in awe
Of your wisdom, I took a step closer and
Stood observing your finger scraping off
A worn off skin around your thumb and
Your feet tapping the ground rapidly
In an asynchronous rhythm for you
Wished to tell her that your bones felt
Empty and you’re getting through days
On spilled glasses of spirit, yet not a quaver
Of weakness in your voice for it
Was not your moment, you never let it be.
I stood afar patiently, curious, only
To realise that your resilience is the
First layer they see with a naked eye, mere
One percent of the real volume, much
Like Earth itself.
My love, what I’d give to reach the fire within.