The Bio-Wars: A Son Lost

A tumour abated alters and waits. Pathway incised, a new one it makes. Spreading and forming, roots growing down. The moment’s now here, a mighty rebound. Battle exhausted, the bones ache and crack. The units expended; yield to the plaque. Inquiry, anger, negotiations above. But the body is weakened, aching and done. “I’m sorry - I’ve tired - but failed in my plight.” “Nonsense, my son, no fighting tonight. No orders, no mission, nor failure to bare. Just love from your father, of that I do swear.” Dead now, but living. Eyes open, but grey. Pallid and wasted, a ghost in but name. A horror unyielding, a memory maligned. Of which we endure, for moments of time.