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We’re beyond the days of Band-Aids fixing anything
when scraped knees and elbows
were the serious matters of life.
My palm rests on the cavity of your chest,
feeling the strings of your body tremble,
shaking off the hand of death.
Inhale.
I cannot kiss the cancer better.
It’s destroyed your body, my heart;
so we sit like this for hours
waiting to die-
just travelers at a bus stop.
- by Dead Boy Dance |
- Poetry And Lyrics
- | Submitted on 05/11/2009 |
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Comments (1 Comments)
- Cottoncandyocbra3 - 05/14/2009
- Wow, what superb imagery and metaphor. Not the strongest of form or craft, and a bit rough, but my, what you could do if you polished it up! A mature and thoughtful post, friend. 4/5.
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