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Writer's pictureDarkling Thrushes

Prostrate

I see you prostrate with a worm's pain, 

Screaming, for the nurse’s help, which 

You’ve taken advantage of it too long. 

‘Should I call Security?’  he threatens. 

 

A fade to muffled noises, and I am left 

In pain and anger, to lament your fate, 

Our fate in a dead-mans hospital: 

Where tantrums meet hypocritical help.

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