On a death ward, you can't hear
a poem. You can't see
a poem. Only the iron gray
voices, the cries you thought
then were cries for mercy
but mistook. They hadn't
finished dying, yet, and didn't
want to be there. They wanted
to be you and not
dying at all. There is no
image for that. No laundering
the symbol tree that makes
the end something it isn't.
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