gone

Gone are the marks of the slits in his back

and the deep gash in his soul.

Gone is the old plain look in his face

of weariness, misery and ruin.

He learned to skip a thought

and run when he falls in a bad place.

He filled his cup not of tears

but of short smiles and silent laughs.

He remembers the reason for his healing.

The letters are carved, in cursive,

not just in the wood on his bed

but also in the skin of his head.

And if he can do something in return,

he will take all the help he got

from him to anyone who needs it.

Because he understands the slow dying.