The Undead in Hospital
I cheep, two grayed birds on there, singing
with me. All the world prays for the machine to beat my heart.
You keep giving me morphine.
I can hear God's prayers singing in your veins.
Patience demands a road that never comes to an end.
All God ever did was think of self-loathing and it evolved into
the complex puzzle of your nursing uniform.
With me, all the world preys.
The patient's demands erode, never come to an end.
Feverish to draw out those veins,
with force if necessary, to pry into your antiseptic stink.
How cheap, to grade birds on their singing.
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