Moon at Half Past Noon

Gone, the hands that steadied bikes,
that braced against the storm.
Now they tremble, paper-birds,
and seek a softer form.
The voice that once could call us home
across a twilight field,
now whispers apologies
for what the day revealed.

A burden is the heaviest weight
one never chose to hold.
It bends the spine of parent-child,
a story growing old.
You see it in the averted gaze,
the meekly offered cup,
the desperate, silent pleading
for you to take it up.

And love, a constant, grinding wheel,
wears down to something thin.
It sharpens on the brittle edge
of medicine and skin.
A flash of hate, so quick, so hot,
for this new, helpless state,
then drowned in shame, a tidal wave—
it is our mutual fate.

This is the blurring: in the night,
while changing soiled sheets,
Is that a touch of tenderness
or fury’s pounding beats?
The spoon you lift with gentle care,
the jaw you clench so tight—
Is this the proof of devotion,
or a well-disguised spite?

They were not fearless of the dark,
or of the world’s sharp edge,
but of the final, helpless spark—
this privilege and pledge.
For happiness, it seems, was just
the strength to stand alone.
Now, in this bed, the greatest fear
is in a whispered tone.

So we orbit this slow decay,
in sickness and in death,
with every frustrated, loving breath,
until their final breath.
A terrible, intimate, desperate dance,
a bond we cannot sever—
We hate the need, we love the soul,
and fear both, now, forever.