Sitting in such a small room,
closed in,
hearing just the rasping breathing,
but it remains as a reminder that he lives,
for soon,
the breathing could stop,
and that not a moment,
that should come any time soon,
sitting and waiting,
writing away,
to level out the mind,
from going mad,
music play on low as it shakes the eardrums,
writing away,
glancing from paper,
window’s display of a night sky,
a lone light above the shoulder,
a heavy breathing body nearby on the bed,
while the love one does the same,
only in the chair,
while the lonely and quiet writer,
sits in a corner,
trying to remain calm and strong,
for it just feels like everything else is falling apart,
a rustle could come and go,
narrow chair arm’s rest,
biting in elbows for staying in a place too long,
yet the pull to go home,
can’t seem to breach that notion,
with that,
there is no need to move,
losing track of when the last time,
sleep was a friend,
now it became a bitter foe,
that haunts the dreams,
bleaching them a deadly color,
that shapes them into nightmares,
going home, would be nice,
but here again,
glancing and writing,
with stiff shoulders,
and a yawn breaking through,
only to shake it off,
glance at the breather,
with a frown in place,
letting a whisper escape,
so thin and tried,
the unused lower jaw,
snaps yawning crack,
letting the mind wander off,
that maybe something new to see,
will be wise,
and just a jaw crack,
before soon,
the book does the same.

 

 

 

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