He was screaming. I could hear
its rasp like lady bugs biting and
crawling through decrepit lungs.
His face was a cold pear
stale and fighting off yellow stares.
I had never seen death.
In every dry plate of skin was a last moment that just
stopped happening.
Tragic, sure.
Very sad. My apologies. I know.
But why can't we just acknowledge
that death is nothing more than a
fine moustache?
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