Birthplace Kai Hines An old man sitting With his back to the tree That holds up his spine While he struggles to breathe With his hands he can feel The softness of the moss That holds him safe in his spot He no longer panics as he cannot catch his breath The primal urge of panic has no place once fading is a certainty Yet he can still feel its flare in his chest Knowing, hopelessly, that it must still fight Knowing, desperately, that he will not survive the night Pushing it down, calmly, he’ll hope To see one last sunset in these branches he knows so well A good place to go, he thinks Almost a home, if there ever was one to have Again he’ll feel the softness of the moss Still so valiantly holding his spot And as the sun nears the ground And the evening birds become sparse and unfound His soul will begin to sink into that brave moss on the ground As the sun flames orange into the clouds He is thankful for his last breath With weathered eyes and battered hands he lets go Giving his last exhale to the branches and the sun And to the moss Who held him so gently.
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