To think a mans fate is decided
not by the battle won or lost
but by the heart alone, is more
than one can bare. Atone we will,
but nothing can mend the deep hole,
the sudden blow, the empty chair,
the memories from smiling faces—
the stories of his wilder days,
before his parts started to give,
and now, all that is left is his
and his alone to give once more,
and he must face the coming storm
with his wife, his friends, and his kids to cheer
him on and back into their arms.
But that was then and this is now.
Today, even the gods of Rapa Nui
might succumb to such unwelcome
overwhelming power and force
as conquistadors lading in boats—
bent on pillaging the moorings
and invading the peaceful shores.
These aliens with wicked guns,
artillery to line the veins
with the platelets of the dying
and living blood defending his love;
to think a mans fate is decided—
before the battle’s even begun,
but still the heartbeats it’s thump
and a Moi stands as hope’s guard
against the coming force of knight
and crown against the thunderous thump—
refusing to give, refusing to take
an inch to the executioners scythe.
Now, we wait
A poem written for a man (wife’s father) that’s heart must be strong enough for surgery in two hours and 9 minutes. That time came and went, now they are removing the devices, giving family members a chance to say goodbye (my wife, is flying 1200 miles to get there,) but there is still a glimmer of hope as he building strength on his own and if it continues they might place an artificial heart pump in before the clock strikes midnight.