The Stain of Death
The Stain of Death
Going into that terrible place
A living dust-bin, black bags
With clothes and books inside
No sign of individuality
Packs and stacks of anonymity
Nothing there to define her personality
But a big stain of vomit on the inside of the toilet
There she made her mark in her last hours
Nothing else in her house of horrors that lets you know
She ever lived there
And even that vile stain is only a sign that
She died there
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