postcards from the cancer ward

I.

seven death beds

each one

has their own

stories to tell,

not a single soul

seems to bother

asking

each other out.

II.

the door to the wash room was wide open,

the floor tiles dirty,

there’s a shit floating

in nirvana

on the toilet bowl and no one

gives a fuck ;

the room reeks of death.

that shit’s foul odor

was sucked out

of it’s own contagious

air of

disgust.

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