A/N: Today I felt hopeless about the health of my grandma, so don't judge me by this one poem. I needed to write about something, so this came out. I hope that at the very least you understand where it is coming from.
'Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune-without the words,
And never stops at all'
These words were once written without thought of the sick.
Those who are suffering can lose hope real quick.
This may be sad but true–it happens again and again.
What else can you do when you have nothing left to gain?
What is left in life but to give up hope for a fresh start?
Sitting, waiting for the last moment of health to depart.
Hope is all that is needed to keep one's spirit going.
But in the last few months or years, one cannot stop aging.
I'm grasping at the hope that has left me with my tears.
I cannot stop it from leaving me like it left her after years.
She's been sick for only months, but she's just now resigned.
It might be from others she's seen barely balance on the line.
I cannot that believe I am at my computer once more,
Writing of things that I shouldn't cry much for.
Age is natural, age is inevitable, but it seems so cruel and cold.
Why should I worry about the course that inflicts all the old?
Here is why: one lives their life and helps others get well,
But when it's their turn to be helped, they can only say 'oh, well.'
Before they get sick, hope is a part of their daily life.
Then, as soon as they're frail, hope departs and leaves them to strife.
Hope endures as long as there is a small chance of good health.
Or, it stays under the surface and stays quiet with practiced stealth.
The problem with that is that once found, it is too late;
The hope is frail, withered, or far too stale to be of much weight.