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His Memories Were Charred

in Literature

He said he’d retire in a year’s time,

By the middle of the summer

His health began to decline,

Cancer cells were on the attack,

He coughed in fits,

A deep, rasping hack,

Then the fever hits,

He was weak and it would show,

Life was lingering and slow,

He just felt like the living dead,

Every morning he found it difficult

To simply get out of bed,

The whites of his eyes

Were stained red,

He was always exhausted

No matter how much he slept,

His family would not complain

As they just quietly wept,

But he felt guilty just the same,

Looking into his wife’s eyes,

And forgetting her name,

His skin was pale,

And he was so weak and frail,

So he’d clean up less and less,

His bedroom was a blackened mess,

The photos of his family had vibrant colors

That was still peeking through,

But his memories were charred,

Grayish in color and hung askew.

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