February 12, 2011
A stench of foul decay fills the air,
It’s a thick and clinging smoke,
Rancid coughing, spluttering for breath
Trying to stave off certain death

The only sound that comes from those chapped lips
Is illness.
It contaminates the room, fills it to the brim,
So no-one enters on a whim,
To visit the girl breathing her last few breaths

Yellow and ancient wings unfurl, stretching towards the light,
Perhaps they intend to embrace it,
Perhaps they intend to destroy it,
One will never know.
Another wracking cough halts the wings,
They shudder, stiffen, then go limp

No more coughs shatter that brittle chest
No more blood stains those soiled sheets
Finally someone enters to see,
A sprawled tiny form underneath a mountain of rotting cloth,
They are too late.
They run to the aid of the little form,
And wrench the covers back,
To see the miniscule abused body,
Of an angel.

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