I was once told of a boy,
Whose terminal sickness made him numb,
Feelings failed to cut though, like a blunt knife.
For at the doorstep of death, he would succumb,
With no plea heeded to live a long life.
The only thing that caught notice,
Of his lifeless gaze,
Was a bird that visited by the windowsill,
Painted in colours of sunsets and fire ablaze.

What became of him; what was his story,
Was never to be told completely,
Perhaps, this anonymity,
Was meant to be,
For if the rest wasn’t history,
The boy’s mother would never have died,
...