The White Room
Sitting by a broken soul
skin is pale
eyes are closed
Vision sights from crying halls
every sound
through my throat
Gazing at a fighting man
nothing left
almost gone
All he does is hold my hand
skin is hard
grip is soft
Hoping that his hand stays warm
wonder if
there's a god
Feeling tears release my soul
Wishing that he would not go
Then he sighs to give in all
clench his hand
warmth is done
with a tilt his life is gone
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