Title: Miracle
by Aimee | in writing, poetry
It's April on the ward.
White walls surround,
Shiny surfaces close in.
Silver machines
beep; long, short, monotonous.
She lays there,
Still, pure, fading.
She's paler by the day,
A translucent ghost of her former self,
But her soul clings on.
Loved ones clasp her hands,
Their tears wet the blue veins,
Protruding from her sickly shell.
They fear the worst.
Goodbyes linger in the air every time someone leaves.
Blonde hair fans out across her pillow from home.
Pink, smattered with polka dots,
A childlike preference,
Reflects her innocence.
Grapes surround her bedside;
Untouched
Birds sing sweet lullabies outside,
They know.
Days pass,
No sign of life comes from her frame.
Body dying, slipping away.
Weeks pass,
Until the machine linked to her,
Beeps quicker,
Faster,
She's breathing deeper.
Her hand stirs.
Doctors rush in...
It can't be.
It's May on the ward,
She sits at her desk,
Tapping away at her computer,
Smiling.
Living.
People walk past her office everyday,
As they pass,
Whisper to one another
"She's a miracle."
The hope that people have, that sometimes doctors can be wrong.
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