The Bio-Wars: A Son Lost
A tumour abated alters and waits.
Pathway incised, a new one it makes.
Spreading and forming, roots growing down.
The moment’s now here, a mighty rebound.
Battle exhausted, the bones ache and crack.
The units expended; yield to the plaque.
Inquiry, anger, negotiations above.
But the body is weakened, aching and done.
“I’m sorry - I’ve tired - but failed in my plight.”
“Nonsense, my son, no fighting tonight.
No orders, no mission, nor failure to bare.
Just love from your father, of that I do swear.”
Dead now, but living. Eyes open, but grey.
Pallid and wasted, a ghost in but name.
A horror unyielding, a memory maligned.
Of which we endure, for moments of time.
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