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In a dim hospital room where machines hum and beeps mark time like a ticking clock, a man lies between two worlds. Once a nameless shadow in the service of a greater cause, he is now a battlefield of broken organs and splintered will. Tortured in the dark, his body remembers every blow….. but his soul forgets how to surrender. The doctors speak of last breaths every morning. But each evening, he draws another. This poem is a tribute….. not to the absence of death, but to the ferocity of life that keeps rising, against all odds, from the ruins within.

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He lies like a hushed explosion,
All the wreckage held in skin.
Organs whisper mutiny,
But his breath says,
Not yet.

The veins are frayed telegrams
Sending pain in fractured code,
Messages written in the tongue of agony……
And still, he listens.
And still, he breathes.

His bones remember steel,
The way the cold slipped in
Through fingernails and fractured teeth……
The hush of questions asked with fists.
The silence of truth,
Paid in blood.

They broke him open,
Looking for secrets.
But they found only,
A heart too stubborn to stop.

His liver a crumbling citadel,
His lungs a battlefield of ghosts,
His kidneys flooded with sorrow.
Each breath costs him the world.

And yet…..
Dawn.
And yet……
Another gasp.
A ripple beneath the skin
That says,
“I am not done.”

Even Death grows tired,
Sits by the bed,
Head bowed,
Waiting.

But he……
He is the unfinished sentence,
The pause before the final chord.
A man who was meant to go
But forgot how to leave.

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There are men who survive, and there are men who defy death…… not by escaping it, but by standing in its fire and not bowing. His body may be failing, but each breath he takes is a rebellion, each heartbeat a drumbeat of resistance. He was tortured to the edge of the void….. but he came back dragging life with him. He lies now, between the moments, not asking for more time, but making war with every second. And perhaps, that is the truest kind of living.

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