By the time they arrived
you were almost gone.
The bleeding had staunched,
but you had lost too much already:
the red of a million sunrises,
rosebuds,
cold ears,
crisp apples,
your favorite truck,
suddenly black and still.
They said goodbye
before they greeted you,
the words an apology
you couldn’t hear,
a prayer that would remain
unanswered.
They were ushered
out the door,
to the plastic chair soldiers
standing at attention.
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