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September 6, 2013
When the salt in our wound
has washed away,
and the healing process,
stopped the decay.
We should feel blessed,
to be given the chance.
It’s only natures way –
the boil, to lance.
When the plaster of paris
has done it’s job,
and held firm the break
that made us sob.
And yet even years later,
when with oil, we anoint.
It’s always going to be
our weakest point.
When lovesick fever
confines us to bed,
and no amount of medication
heals our head.
We lay awake til dawn
and toss and turn,
recalling lost decades
for love we still yearn.
When the point of incision
cuts through the heart,
and arteries sever,
as we fall apart.
We build a defence –
a show for the world.
Though inside our cocoon
remaining, tightly curled.
When at the end of our days
and our heart beats no more,
and ‘Do not resuscitate’
says the sign upon the door.
And all the hell raising,
is now a thing of the past.
Yet, through agony and ecstasy
we lived life with a blast.
When deep in the ground
with our demons we’re buried,
and a life that was fast
is no longer hurried.
And although we may hammer
on the coffin lid,
only distant voices can be heard,
saying, ‘Farewell, see ya kid’.
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