Passing On

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The burn marks and scars speak to the cancer’s severity.
I feel his tired resignation of the inevitable.
At 19, I curse this insidious scourge, what temerity it exhibits.
To die at home is a comfort, it is life’s unceremonious contradiction.
I will miss his presence and oddities, then one last gaze into his dying eyes.
The tears and sobs engulf the room, the newly-born spirit rejoices at his reunion.










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