her
moan, her breathing..
the death
of sleep
upon her.
still hanging on by
threads.
a year
in this strange house,
the box room,
handled
by strangers who
are never
known.
she can't see or talk,
just barely breathe
as she's fed as if a bird,
a crumb of food,
then water,
drop by drop.
i whisper in her ear,
it's okay.
we're fine, it's time
to leave.
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