Wednesday, February 22, 2012

The Theory Behind Silver Bullets

Blood in an old lady's lungs
she can no longer
wheeze out thoughts
about life or death

A doctor rises cool
Dracula to night
to float a grave of corridors
bite her neck and leave

Stretchers sigh towards
a cape of red and white
fleetingly passing
rooms full of waiting

Hands so small
clocks tick recklessly on

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