Sick
The view from here never changed,
fan still creaks an awful smell.
There may be birds on the shell,
but sickness remains unchanged.
Up and down it goes around,
the taste of phlegm never drowns.
What a way to be a clown
Lying, buried on the ground.
I have lost the smell of you
still, my memory lingers.
The way you moved your fingers
makes me miss the sunset too.
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