Oliver

My delicate child,
So ill, yet again.
Twelve years of life,
Spent fighting, for breath.
Your sun-tinted chest,
With the chocolate brown mole, above
Your top, right hand rib,
Raises, ever higher,
As you strive to fill your lungs.
And still you smile,
Your one dimple, slightly odd
Without it's twin,
Plays in and out,
As you try to convince me
You're fine.
But your eyes tell the truth,
Shadowed in black,
As tired as mine.
Misplaced on someone so young,
As you,
My son.