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7d
Underneath the thorn
  stinking, **** suppurates.

It throbs–
pulling the splinter–
  pressing out the ****–
      squeezing until the green sepsis runs ******.

The thorn's scar
      is permanent
            biding time,
                  waiting for bacteria.
My reflections my a lost son. I can't compete with the great poem by Ben Johnson, but these are my feelings anyway.
Written by
Gerry Sykes  66/M
(66/M)   
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