A weight upon the silent frame, A shadow creeping, soft and still, A whisper cold, a quiet claim, That bends the spirit to its will.
The breath grows shallow, slow and thin, As time’s slow hand begins to fade, A fragile thread we cling within, A hope that shadows cannot shade.
Yet in the darkness, faint and deep, A flicker lingers, small and bright, A desire for strength, a wish to keep— A spark that fights against the night.
For though the illness we may face, And shadows cast their heavy gloom, The soul endures with quiet grace, And blooms beyond the shadow’s doom.
