In moments of scrutiny,
and nocturnal leisure,
He snuggles in his chair,
feeling unrest.
Like a pinch of a needle,
his heart tells him something's not right.
He clenches his hands against his chest,
searching for someone in the night.
Faintly, he reaches for the nightstand in the dark,
Seeking that book unread for years,
with pages now yellow and stark.
As he arches his back, a cough takes hold,
A reminder of old habits,
when he was stubborn and bold.
The tissue, crumpled and worn with age,
Is his only salvation,
his only sage.
He hopes for pats on his back and comforting words,
But feels only a sharp pain that hurts.
Strange... acute...
starting in his arm and creeping,
His stubborn mind waits for it to pass without weeping.
Strange...
never felt like this before...
"It's time, my love, please wait for me," he implores.
The clock strikes three-fifteen in the night,
And in the end, it's just
another story to be told.
Another candle that, alone,
lost it's light.
Silence. On my lips.
The story now grows old.
Text by C.M.V.R (MySoulToTake)
Art by Dall-E
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