52. a free-verse poem thign
Look
My breathing slows.
Tired, apathetic shallow breaths
Not a care given as I fall flat.
The pencil slipping out from my grasp.
They come. Frantic, nimble footsteps
As they shake my cold, frozen body
He cups my face with a knowing look.
Then the others start to wear that look too.
My mind is her control center.
My heart is her fuel.
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