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.

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