The Nine Year Old

Compassion for her as she struggles for life,
Trees stand aside awaiting her soul’s whimper,
I, on the other hand, standby next to her bed,
Watching her lungs inflate each few slow seconds,
And feeling her rebellious heartbeat calling out,
Hoping after each blink I’d see her eyes open.

Chattering into her warm and sweet little right ear,
Yeah, sh-she must; she must be hearing my voice,
I bet she senses ‘love’ elements revolving around her,
As I spray that fresh cherry-scent perfume on her,
And guarding her through the past year’s sleepless nights,
Hoping after each tear I’d hear her say: “mommy; daddy”.

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Stabilising the Soul

Is it an enormous tree or a humble man I see?
Purity draining into the dusty autumn leaves,
Or an exhausted elderly limping on his third leg?

It is source and extended cables both required for a life,
The two are none but a blurry vision I have foreseen,
Incessant distorted images infiltrating a lot of memories.

I accepted the existence of the truth and its spatial loci,
Others still consider me too naïve to seek such an element,
Thus, the dust, from this path to my face, kept its promise.