I am your healer, beaten and worn.
I take all the pain, I take all the damage, I take all the impact, yet I remain standing, battered by the wind and rain, struck by lightning hit by cyclone.
I am your healer, even from the other side of lane, protecting you despite all the cause, healing you even when your sharp sword is stabbed into my chest.
My ideal is healing, to heal your fresh gashes with all that I had, neglecting my own body covered in wounds, unattended of scars.
You can cut me everywhere, slash me with that defensive sword you have, try to ruin me until I'm no longer capable. But there's one thing you can never sever, and that's the arms that will always draw you into the unconditional warm embrace.
And I say, it's okay, it's fine. You're the fighter, you combat, you're the assassin, you kill.
And I'm the healer, vulnerable, weak and helpless.
Dependable, useless and fragile.
And in this battle of relentless invincible elevations and depressions.
Tears will be shed, new damage will be done, strength will be defeated, hopes shall riot.
However in this midst of this demolition, where demons unleashed and shatter any sanity left.
There's one person, stood un-crumbled, even when weighing under weapons impelling from the back to chest, covered in blood, mass of broken bones,
Despite all risked obstacles, crawling through the path of thorns and spikes, making past deadly flames and tough frost.
Just to grasp your hand, bloody with the evidence that matches mine inflicted, and haul you into an embrace, of no existence of agony, and forgotten of pain.
For I will rise, from the gate of death.
I will breathe, at my last gasp.
I will remain, to survive.
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