I do not have a brush,
pencils, paints, or
But I do have
to be painted..
When night comes and she starts to sleep
The mask comes off--she cannot keep
her brave face on when conscious mind has slipped away
Her broken body fights for air
Her slumping face shows signs of wear
Her voice, in daylight so controlled
contorts in whimpers, tears my soul
I sit for hours, minutes, days
And silently I count, the way
she taught me to when Child Me was scared.
When consciousness comes back again,
returning her to worlds of men,
Her once bright eyes straining to see--
they flit around, and land on me
As recognition starts to dawn,
she weakly smiles--I fake a yawn
So she doesn't know I was awake to hear her scream.
"Oh, sorry to wake you up," she says,
But before you head on back to bed,
-------Would you get me a bowl of Cheerios?"