The cradle of life swings back and forth. These torturing memories I silently recall. A taste of sudden fear, to numb my sins. Violently eager, to conquer my whims. Capturing the moment with a fluttering blink, Flushing out blight, to rise from the weak. Paper hands made from sturdy oak trees, A core so strong, it defeats the disease. Haunted dreams, uneasy and unwell, Afraid to wake up, too scared to dwell. A rusted watch to tell the broken time, The wrath of Cronos echoes his prime. Lucidly walking into the unknown, Facing the void, yet still all alone. A final wish to live a heartbeat, Revived in spirit, I rise to my feet. Mike Tragas 2024/09/25 Chania, Greece