Sometimes the needles in her brain contract,
as if miasma penetrated her hemispheres,
dormant 'til the presentations rouse her stem,
by way of torching... the tips of her nerves,
until the host betakes her young breath,
an invasion she likens to fire thru' her lungs.
Her doctors have reviewed the episodic video,
taken those pictures that light up her body
Fools gold remission is all they've garnered,
some days go on forever, some end like months.
There be no utopia, no rush in this script;
at best, a cup of hours of temporary sanity-
within her head, through her toxic veins.
She has been to them all, the best in the field
and has earned the right to feel comfort again,
be it only a few hours each day, it's so important
that she have those few hours to lower her cross,
have life in ''her'' hands, if just for a few hours...
so she may place them over her heart
so she may still embrace hope.
Charlotte, you come with gifts bearing peace
as each day she prays for another day
and that is something special,
the belief in the miraculous,
but only because miracles.... do happen.
© 2015-All rights reserved
Frank James Ryan Jr. / FjR
Revised & Reposted 10-09-17
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
so she may place them place on her heart.............do you want two places? ? bri ;)