So much like you that weary shack,
Standing, oh so weakly, by sheer resolve alone.
Fragile slats, like your ribs, I can count,
And On your head where once grew hair,
Thick and shinny, brassy brown,
I place a kiss on scalp so bare.
It's been too long since smiles adorned
Your precious face, now pallid and drawn.
Yet, so unlike that shack you are,
For much time it had to acquire memories
Of generations before it will expire.
Old age it has achieved, ninety years, or more I believe
To experience life in all its splendor,
Unlike you of years so tender,
The reaper waits for your surrender
So desperately onto life you hold,
My Cancer ridden, six-year-old.
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