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January 2013, vol 8, no 4

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Mary Dawson

Close the Door Quietly

From the room she has become confined to and a bed now compulsory her eyes transfix on the coming and going of people she thought she knew, as the sweet taste of Valium slowly fizzles under her tongue and the hypnotic sound of Morphine pumps into her veins and through the open window the rain drops dance and scatter onto her pillow and all that she can smell, is the sorrow of what tomorrow will bring.

Reaching the station platform,
just as the last train leaves