Hand on his forehead,
Pushing back wisp of hair,
Bony fingers clutching at thin air,
Drifting in and out of a body comatose,
More dead than alive he ever was...
How time flies,
Here I am sitting under an open sky
Watching the breeze tease the trees,
He slips onto the grass where I sit,
Saying nothing,
I must be mad to feel his presence,
Yet,when tears well up,
I know he’s there,
Back from the realm of his choice,
To lift me high,
Just as when I was little,
And started to cry...
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