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And now to bed, and try once more for sleep, but soon the subconscious starts to then weep the rotten/rotting truth into the deep of mind and body; those slow seconds seep. Thus not weeks later doth the cough begin, and nights loom painful, like ritual sin, the pores leak and drip the guilt onto skin, while the soul howls quietly, and death creeps in. And over the years that pass forth so quick, that constant cough becomes a tumour, thick, inside corrupted lungs where it does stick, cancerous cells into a heart of sick. The cruelty of time that drives on by, would it'd never make a person cry, but anyone who lives each day a lie, scars their own epitaph before they die.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2017

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Date: 10/14/2017 10:28:00 PM
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Clifford Chapman
Date: 12/5/2017 3:55:00 AM
Yes, it sure was. Bitter, I know, but so mad it was that you could almost call it suicide by any other name. Never will I understand why people do such things that only give them but thoughtless pleasure for just an instant but bring almost constant misery and despair, as here the greatest of physical and mental pain and suffering until an agonising death.