Quiet Hour

The room is hushed, the clock moves slow,
Each breath a tide that comes, then goes.
You sit beside him, hand in hand,
A witness to what time has planned.
The days grow quiet, shadows bend,
He is gently progressing towards the end.
No sudden storm, no violent tide, 
Just time itself, with nothing to hide.
You sit beside him, steady, and near,
Holding space for love and fear.
Each breath he takes, a fragile thread,
A whispered echo of what's been said.
Family gathers, near and far,
Drawn together by who you are.
They come to offer final grace,
To hold his hand, to see his face.
The stories linger in the air,
Of childhood games, of tender care.
His body weakens, worn and slow.
Yet in his eyes, the embers glow.
A father's love does not recede,
It plants itself like living seed.
Though the hours stretch and weigh,
You mark them gently, day by day.
Not rushing fate, not turning back,
Just walking with him down this track.
Progressing towards the end, it seems,
Yet life still flickers in his dreams.
The bond you hold will never break,
It's more than time, more than ache.
Let the silence be your friend,
As he keeps progressing towards the end.
For endings teach what love shown:
Even gone, we're never alone.
Wait, watch, and let him rest,
You've given your all, you've done your best.
And when the silence claims the day,
His love will never fade away.