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May 2015
The illness catches branches low,
heralds beaten unseen woe.

It grows inside me, spark by spark,
a fire in my favorite park.

Jewels forgotten, rivers clean,
mark it by the ashy sheen.

It's gone again; it's worth your while,
stab yourself and spit up bile.

Your days are done and I will rise,
I am back to claim my prize.
A letter to a loved one
ej
Written by
ej
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