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And so tomorrow she will go under the knife,

Lulled to a forceful sleep.

But in those hours that will go in seconds,

We will feel them as years. 

It is beyond a reason, her infection;

The blackness that spreads within. 

No anger may be hurled

So it festers tucked inside. 

This future is rife with tension

Of life and death and the interim. 

I may do nothing but stand

And face what is flung towards me

Whether it be a blessing

Or my downfall.