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The sickness that waits,
Inside the crusted marrow,
Is ticking away�.
Your enraged words
Are frothing up to my throat
Cascading my tongue
Your plane has landed
Two minutes until your face
My heart beats faster
It was just not fair
How disease stole your beauty
You of all people
I dreamt of your face
And drew it on my pillow
You whispered in my ear

Copyright  2006 Nicola West - All Rights Reserved

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