Nine.
Nine months of being the real him
The man he ought to be brought to life
resurrected by the intuition of love
by the anchor of soul called his wife
Nine months to straighten up, melt gentle
send roses, hold hands, sleep well.
Nine months of laughing loud, kissing soft
asking forgiveness when he fell.
Alive at last. Until the moment, the frozen moment
doctors, hospitals, fading fast.
She fought like anger, he held her madly
They clung to hope like a life preserver.
Nine more weeks to kiss her softly
Nine more weeks to tell her life
Nine weeks to mourn this women
who no longer looked like his beautiful wife
Nine more smiles too weak to handle
as she lost her golden glow
Nine more friends who slip consolation
in quiet nods to him as they go
Nine hours to bring her home
waiting for her last words
Nine more hours he'd be alone
a notion depraved and absurd
Nine more breaths to hold her there
while the clock clicked on with it's evil eyes
Nine more seconds, then flood the tears
as his life full of promise, with her, expires...
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