It falls,
Brokenly in grace the rain does so,
Marbles mixed with rusty nails and glass,
Beat upon the polish ivory granite floors,
Echoing in ears that try to block it out . . .

Leaning against the cool night window,
Eyes on all that towered in darkness,
Flash in lightening to brighten a moment,
To look upon the whipping forest before one’s eyes,
Doing a deadly tango,
That comes of arroyos the stiff barks to yowl in pain.

In distance,
A thunder cry comes,
To in a branch has fallen afar,
The remaining power is gone,
Leaving only the muffle tunes vibrate the headphones,
And hollow breathing fills the air.

A wiry bone of a hand rests on the window,
Fogging a sliming and fading palm print,
Along with the IV vines flowing around like a spider,
Brows furrow at the sight,
In nothing but curiosity . . .

The arm,
Nothing but a stub,
Leans as a stilt,
Numb by the hours upon hours on laying on it,
As the legs hang over the nook that arches out,
From under the window,
Like an open bed slide.

Hollowing breath keeps forth,
Rising and falling,
And content.

Roll lighting comes,
A figure in seen within the woods,
The medicine has taken its course,
As the doctors have hope,
To they said before,
It would be slow and ease,
When death came in lessen the pain.

With a sigh of tired gleefulness,
The child open’s the a crack,
Having the bullets of rain pelt upon thin clothed skin,
A groan in pain comes,
As the wires almost pulled out,
A hint of copper fills the air,
But the child pays no mind.

The medicine would end first,
Before the sickness could,
Puffy eyes look to the stub of an arm,
Of that present of trouble ill,
Would only spread if not taking taken care of . . .

“Come death in swiftly.”

The child cried,
Leaning on the sill of the now,
Open window,
The dark figure moving like an hour glass of sand,
Years within its dome of glass,
That just never seems to end.


The voice rises,
Dried and crack from lack of used.

“This isn’t how I want to die!”

In any case,
Dying in an unplanned way,
Is no want that no one needs of a blindfold fact of sadness?

Question it not,
If one is willing to leave that rabbit hole.

“Please . . .”

A sickness that comes out of nowhere,
Leaves many to wonder,
Why it takes so long for a cure,
To where,
As this child,
Await death,
Even at the slip of the edge,
Just to get away.

Wasting time in make others forget,
Changes nothing,
But be wasteful.

And to that another life,
Is gone every six seconds,
Because pleasure beats living,
On a two second cure,
To forget,
On the fails that no one tried to make notice,
If it was an error at the start!

Sickness is an error that takes life,
In matter to stall,
Pleasure wins every round,
Because finding a cure,
Is nothing but a pipe dream!

And there goes another,
Shame is what it is,
In this world we live in.

In a world,
That has nothing else to give,
But broken cures . . .

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