
As each day passes I watch him die.
Slowly, surely with no reprieve.
It is sundown that brings the worst of times;
For darkness seems so final.
A well worn pattern plays out each night;
Watching, waiting, knowing death will come;
Announced or unannounced.
My hands lightly touching, to feel his warmth,
And the gentle rise of his chest.
Memorizing in the darkness his field of energy.
For when he returns than my hand's will know his presence;
Day or night.

















23 old applause
