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Mar 8
Sleepless dreaming, framed by screaming.
Is she breathing?
Take the time.
One. Two. Three.
I wonder…
Four. Five.
Is death kind?
Six. Seven.
Will she make it?
Eight. Nine.
Never mind.
Marble eyes roll in their pockets,
Arms and legs seizing their sockets,
Groaning breath sends lips aquiver,
Her tiny figure writhes and shivers.
Ten. Eleven
How much longer?
Twelve. Dear God!
Let her be stronger.
A Toneless voice of mock assurance,
Won’t deter these pulsing currents,
Tongues detained by ball and chain,
Massage the air to ease the pain.
Thirteen comes.
Now slowly, easy.
Fourteen.
The sound of gentle breathing.
Dimple-drawn, her mouths sweet boarders,
Pull that weak smile from its cask,
Inhale relief, a hard won nectar,
Her limbs all leaded from their task.
One nod from death,
one swift departure
and for the moment, all is fine.
The clock's cold hands
continue turning,
So don't forget to take the time.
Tori
Written by
Tori  19/F
(19/F)   
897
   Shiv Pratap Pal and Jules
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