The Manuscript.

His life,turned into a banal mission,
With ensuing bouts of depression,
Exasperated by many,but one reason,
Though he hates it here,its his refuge,his prison,
To lost friends,he looks changed,
But its him,just some how rearranged!

More than ever,his eyes now bating,
Behind the curtains,he’s truly hurting,
He has run out of tears,
Inundated by his fears,
So he lives to the full everyday,
Afraid that his tomorrow may be taken away.

Nightmares might after all be true,
A fact that makes him blue,
There’s an IV inside his vein,
Numb,after being accustomed to the pain.

Mum smiles,though close to tears,
Reaching for her ears,
Urges her to keep smiling,
Asserting to hold on,to keep trying,
Pray,don’t Cry!

Her pray is different;unlike some sound like brittle leaves;Brittle;Wishes:Please,
Some boast,swinging on golden pail,
among the lightest,scentless fruit,
Most never rise above a tree.Demands
woven whatnot,green the
grief,white denial,
Snag in,why not,lavender,nests
As she hopes against hope,against crows,
That light would return.

Quickly writes
A note,slips it in her pocket-Reads,
“mum I see the tears I’m causing you,
And I can see your hands are shaking,
I can feel your purpose breaking,
And I’m sorry that you’re losing faith,
But I hope that one day you understand
That just like you had said to me before.
Our good lord has a plan”