Lend Me Your Comb

My heart, it crumbles, in the reflection of your eyes,
Which display the true image of a deadly demise.
Disease, it has wrecked you, you're a mere shadow now.
Carrying on without you, I can only guess how.

A few more weeks left, of your frame sitting there.
Back and forward you go, in Grandma's rocking chair.
So lost in thought, over which death roams,
Completely unaware that you'll soon leave your home.

Your long golden hair, the only light left inside.
I pull up a chair and place it right beside.
I begin to speak, although you appear not to care:
"Lend me your comb, and I'll brush your gorgeous hair."

Staring right through me, but you turn to the right,
Picking up the comb, which is lying in sight.
You hand it to me, and a small smile begins,
And inside my heart, for the first time, it grins.

The comb massages every strand of delicate beauty,
Making you peaceful, I believe it's my duty.
Now just rest your eyes, rid yourself of any fear.
There's nothing to worry about; your sister is here.