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Four Oh Eight

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It's 4:08 pm.
The room is silent
Except for her breathing;
Steady,
Slow,
And slightly forced.
The window is open
And outside the sky is
Blue
And the sun is
Golden
And everything is peaceful
Out there,
But in here,
It's cold
And with every breath
Comes a tangible dread.
The trees blow with a gentle wind
And everything
Looks its most vibrant color
Except for her face,
Her white, white face,
With that odd yellow undertone.
My eyes are red and raw,
And she takes her last breath,
And every living thing
Holds still,
Because it's 4:08,
And nothing's living when she's gone.




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OriginalCarbonation said...
Mar. 26, 2011 at 9:50 pm:
was this person supposed to have died? either way it was a reallly good deep poem. i could feel it.
 
sonnysulouff This work has been published in the Teen Ink monthly print magazine. replied...
Mar. 27, 2011 at 9:51 am :
Yes, it is about my mother.
 
OriginalCarbonation replied...
Mar. 27, 2011 at 11:48 pm :
oh im so sorry. wow, this poem has a whole nother meaning thats even deeper than what i first picked up on. everytime i think of one of your amazing works (which will probably be quite often) ill remember to say a quick prayer for her and for you.
 
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