The mechanical hum
and the cacophony of chaos
surrounds you,
in this place;
a supposed cocoon
of healing.
Yet for me,
on this eve
baring the burden
of the night's watch,
I find no solice
in this space.
For a father,
cannot rest
cannot think
cannot move
knowing that his baby
girl
lies ill.
Nothing,
no one,
no tincture
no potion
no words
can ease the terror
lying in the depths
of a father's mind.
You lie still
swaddled in cotton
the infusion
of health
coursing through you
synchronous with the beat.
A father can try
to be objective
to be protective
to be anything
for her;
because until the bitter
end
you
must always be
nothing more,
and
nothing less,
than perfect.
