[txt][jpg] AI poems about CPR on girl (Pixiv Fanbox)

Include the images used as references.

Rescue of Katsushika Ōi

I. The Fire’s Wrath

The painted screens in crimson light,

Reflected flames that licked the night.

A careless spark, a wisp of breath,

Turned beauty’s hall to dance with death.

Through curling smoke and embers bright,

Amidst the ash, the choking blight,

A figure lay in silk adorned,

By fire’s glow, her flesh still warmed.

Ōi, the muse, the painter’s grace,

Her crimson robe—a wilted lace.

The scent of ink and smoldered thread,

Yet in her chest, no life had fled.

II. Pulled from the Inferno

He charged within, defying fate,

The heat did claw, the flames did wait.

Amidst the ruins, there she lay,

Her breath was gone, her skin was gray.

He held her close—so light, so still,

Her skin was warm, yet deathly chill.

Her painted lips, her violet hair,

A fleeting ghost in ashen air.

Upon the earth he laid her bare,

Her silken robe fell loose with care.

Her bosom pale, her shoulders bare,

A lifeless doll in fire’s snare.

III. The Hands of Life

Two trembling fingers sought her vein,

No pulse, no breath—just death’s domain.

His hands upon her chest did meet,

Between her breasts, a desperate beat.

He pressed—one, two, three, then more,

Her body rocked against the floor.

Her supple chest beneath his hands,

Compressed with force in measured spans.

Her breasts would rise, then fall anew,

A motion soft, yet lifeless too.

Her skin was cold, her lips were blue,

Yet still he breathed, his hope stayed true.

Her parted lips—he sealed with breath,

To force back life, to battle death.

Her warmth was gone, but still he tried,

To bring her back from where souls hide.

IV. The Shock of Thunder

A voice rang clear—a machine's decree,

A charge was set to break her free.

Upon her breast, the pads took hold,

Her skin like porcelain, smooth and cold.

"Shock advised," the speaker said,

And then her fragile frame was spread.

A lightning bolt through tender skin,

A jolt that made her shudder thin.

Her bosom arched, her body tensed,

Then silence fell—the world condensed.

Again he pressed, again he breathed,

Yet still no sign of life received.

Again the voice, the fateful call,

A second shock—her rise, her fall.

Yet when he placed his hands anew,

No rhythm strong, no pulse came through.

V. Despair’s Cry

A scream of rage, a loss too great,

His hands did shake, his fists struck fate.

Upon her cheek, a stinging sound,

But lifeless eyes stayed blank, profound.

"Wake up!" he roared, in grief, in woe,

As slaps and echoes failed to show

A single sign of breath's return,

A single spark where life still burned.

Desperation, raw and wild,

He bared her chest, removed the silk.

Her heart lay still, her body mild,

A statue cast in fate's cruel ilk.

A final blow—his fist did land,

A pounding force, a last demand.

Her breasts did shake, her ribcage quaked,

Yet lifeless still, she did not wake.

Exhausted now, he fell, collapsed,

His face against her skin still warm.

His sobs were deep, his hands unclasped,

Embracing death in sorrow’s storm.

VI. Breath Reclaimed

Yet in his grief, a whisper rose,

A fragile gasp, the wind’s repose.

Against his ear, her heartbeat woke,

A single note—a fate revoked.

Her ribs did lift, her chest did swell,

Like ocean tides in moonlight's spell.

Her breasts did rise with hurried breath,

Returning from the arms of death.

Her lips, once cold, did part once more,

A groan escaped—a voice restored.

Her lashes fluttered, breath came deep,

No longer lost in dreamless sleep.

His name—a whisper faint but true,

Through trembling lips like morning dew.

He held her close, her warmth returned,

And in his arms, her heartbeat burned.

Epilogue

Through fire’s wrath and sorrow’s tear,

Through force and fate and whispered prayer,

Through hands that fought, through lips that gave,

Through shock and strike and love so brave—

Ōi had fallen, death had near,

Yet breath returned, and life was here.

Breath of the Fallen Rose

Upon the cold and lifeless stone,

Where silver moon in sorrow shone,

A maiden lay in slumber deep,

Bound fast in death’s unyielding keep.

Her gown, a veil of twilight spun,

With hues of dusk and morning sun.

Yet through its weave so soft, so light,

Her slender limbs lay pale as white.

Her golden tresses, loosely spread,

Like sunlit silk upon the bed.

Her lashes rest in frozen peace,

Yet breath is lost, her warmth deceased.

Upon her lips, now faintly blue,

A foaming trace, a ghostly dew.

As if in silent, unheard cry,

She called for aid, yet none stood by.

No rise, no fall, her bosom still,

A vessel drained, bereft of will.

A whisper’s breath, a fleeting spark,

Now drowns beneath the looming dark.

"Nay, not yet!" I cry in vain,

As trembling hands defy her bane.

What fate would steal such tender grace,

And cast her soul to death’s embrace?

With hastened breath and furrowed brow,

I press my palms upon her now.

Between soft hills where warmth once lay,

I seek her heart and bid it stay.

A measured force, yet firm and deep,

To break the chains of endless sleep.

A thousand silent prayers are spun,

With each swift thrust—one hundred, one.

Her fragile ribs beneath my hands,

Do bend, do yield to fate’s demands.

A whisper stirs—a ghostly moan,

Yet still her breath remains unknown.

Her lips, once soft, now cold as snow,

Yet life’s warm flame I dare bestow.

I seal my mouth to hers so sweet,

And gift the air her lungs must meet.

Her chest now lifts, a fleeting breath,

Yet silent still she lies in death.

Again, again, I press, I plead,

My strength now spent, my hands do bleed.

And then—a gasp! A sudden quake!

Her lashes flutter, slow to wake.

A trembling sigh, a voice so weak,

Yet lips of dusk now bloom to pink.

Her eyes, like pools of ocean deep,

Now gaze at me from death’s cold sleep.

A single tear does trail her cheek,

A soul reclaimed—no words to speak.

The night is still, the struggle past,

Yet echoes whisper, breath held fast.

No victory great, nor hero’s fame,

Just hands that stole her back from flame.

And though she breathes, though death is stayed,

The hand of fate still softly swayed.

For in that touch, in breath once lost,

Two souls were bound, despite the cost.

The Ballad of Musashi’s Revival

Beneath the veil of mist and steam,

Where lanterns cast their silver gleam,

A maiden bathed in waters bright,

Her form aglow with tender light.

Her skin like ivory, smooth and fair,

Her silken strands in humid air,

Clung to her shoulders, wet with pearls,

A vision rare, a gem of girls.

But lo! A gasp—then none at all,

Her slender frame began to fall.

The water swirled, her breath was gone,

Her soul adrift, her fate undone.

The bathhouse keeper, swift of stride,

Beheld her sinking in the tide.

With trembling arms, he drew her near,

His heart struck through with dread and fear.

He bore her forth past wooden beams,

Her naked form in midday beams.

Upon the stones so cold and white,

She lay unmoved, bereft of life.

Her bosom still, her lips so blue,

Her limbs lay soft as morning dew.

Her supple breasts in silence heaved

With neither breath nor life retrieved.

The keeper knelt, his hands held tight,

Upon her chest, he pressed with might.

A steady rhythm, strong and true,

He fought to bid her life renew.

Her tender flesh beneath his palms,

Did rise and fall in measured psalms.

Yet breathless still, her lips so dry,

He knew she teetered near goodbye.

So forward bent he, lips to red,

Where warmth of life and death had wed.

With breath so deep, he filled her chest,

And willed her soul to wake from rest.

Once more, once more, with ceaseless force,

He chased the pulse upon its course.

Till lo! A whisper, soft and weak,

A trembling sigh, a blush to cheek.

Her lashes fluttered, sky-blue eyes,

Gazed up at him in soft surprise.

Her chest now heaving, breath anew,

A crimson hue across her grew.

She clutched herself, her fingers light,

To shield her form from stranger’s sight.

Yet in her gaze, though shy and coy,

A silent question laced with joy.

The gathered folk, in awe they stood,

The man had done what healers could.

No shame, no sin, nor whispered blame,

For life restored is free of shame.

Then as she rose, with towel drawn,

She met his gaze at break of dawn.

Her lips then curved, a knowing smile,

“Kind sir, you’ve saved me—stay a while?”