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 © Clifford Chapman | Year Posted 2017
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