The Life of Waiting

I live a life of quiet wait,
A rhythm marked by patient fate.
Each morning starts with hope restrained,
By lines and tubes my flesh has gained.

I wait for her, my gentle guide,
To wrap this wound I cannot hide.
Her hands, like grace, move soft and slow,
To seal the place where lifeblood flows.

I wait for meals, the scent, the steam,
Small joys that drift into a dream.
Each plate she brings, a gift of care,
Each bite a prayer, each glance a dare.

I wait to go to Calapan,
Where steel and light and hums began.
The road is long, the day is pale,
But still I ride, so weak, so frail.

I wait within the clinic’s walls,
As silence echoes through the halls.
A name is called—it isn’t mine.
So still I sit, I mark the time.

I wait to feel the needle’s sting,
The cold touch of the sterile wing.
And once I’m tied to humming breath,
I lie in wait, defying death.

I wait for nights to bring release,
For sleep, for stillness, fleeting peace.
I wait for the call of my siblings,
My children, whose voices make my spirit sing.
They are the light that warms my days,
The ones I cherish in countless ways.

I wait to die—but not in vain,
I wait with faith, I bear the pain.
I wait for grace to kiss my brow,
Not yet, not here, not even now.

A miracle may yet arrive,
To not just help me cope—but thrive.
This is my life, this sacred state,
Of longing, ache, and silent wait.
But love surrounds each passing day,
And in that love, I find my way.