We are
witnesses of tears, endings,
human souls tiptoeing out quiet rooms,
or screaming out the last breath,
or worst, their fire dying out in old eyes.
They don’t know the person in the mirror anymore.
Yes, this is how they look in
their last moments,
difficult moments,
too vulnerable. 

Looking into his eyes,
hearing his son, a man, crying for the only time in his life,
feeling you fell short, 
you failed him. 
What if what you did mattered? 
Even if just a bit, even if for a little, and it would be all worth it.
But what if they were just being nice when they whispered “thank you” when you turned to leave his room? 

Sometimes you’re the enemy.
For her, scrubs are army uniforms, bringing only pain;
so she spits in your face, you are nearest, 
spiteful innocence.

You are a hero in newspapers, billboards, comments.
It doesn’t feel like it,
but you will not give up, because
they need you.