But a Child

Frail and sickly she’s been, light as a feather.

It’d been months of her feeling under the weather.

Cold and pale as the winter months, shaky breaths would escape her lungs.

Pitiful, it sounded, yet strong all at once.

I knew why she was lying there, but try as I might, she didn’t want to fight.

Despite the months of quiet suffering, my constant hovering, she’s but a wight.

A lost cause, enshrouded with gauze and a heart scorned, contrite.

But who is she, encased in cotton?

A being shriveled and desiccated, withered and rotten?

She's a child, born exactly as I.

Open to joy, excited, bright-eyed.

But over the years, she has been worn down.

Battered and beaten too many times to count.

And with each rap of cruel iniquity,

her eyes still shine, but only just dimly.

For as the pins stab and the needles break skin,

she still holds hope to embrace joy again.