He falls into sleep with the softness of a whisper,
his time of anomalous existence where nothingness
takes shape as dreams and images that shelter him
between life and the delicate truth of brooding death.
Behind closed eyes he watches me move to
either side like a silent sentry and I begin to
wonder what it’s like to be in his dreams,
to ponder the places he has been and the
people that exist only within his mind.
I sit, and shadows lift from my armchair in the corner
when the sun rises from its slumber and washes
away the dark presence that follows with the night.
The light strikes his eyes twice and at once he awakens,
his limbs no longer numb and void of life.
His somber eyes, glistening blue and white,
affirm his humanity again for fourteen hours;
I smile behind my worry and he witnesses
the loving sentience of his grandmother and the
steamy aroma of black tea and our breakfast on
a cold winter morning.