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1:30 a.m.
I still have the nightmare 
 Of waking up to you and your 
 Dry, cold face, just as  
 That man in the paper did. 
 
 Your death grey eyes looking 
 At my pale blue ones, 
 As if to say, "I'm here, 
 Do you recognize me?" 
 
 My eyes are painfully focused 
 On your decrepit face, 
 Whilst yours are wondering away 
 To a shadow on the wall. 
 
 In five minutes, either one of 
 Our lives could end 
 At this moment and you would 
 Still feel nothing. 
 
 Your family's forced love can't Protect you from creul reality. 
 I then blink to take the images And thoughts in, and I wake.

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