Terminal
S
Sheena Blackhall
0
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A bobbing cork, he lives a storm of days
No battle-charge could ever be as cruel
As wakening up to his realities
Helpless as winter cabbage, human fuel
For parasitic pain to chew upon
He is the ruin of a mortal man
All honour to his fight. He will flat line
With slow paralysis, that cumber band
That tightens, spreads, enshrouds him like a cape
A living coffin, voice drool, mouth agape
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