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Psychosis Has Icy Hands

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Envisage the grim reaper

acquainting himself.

 

With one dominant swing of his scythe,

he severs you from normality.

 

Suddenly conscious to the fact

you will live on as a ghost from your past.

 

Resting its icy hand on my soul,

psychosis paled my youthful blushes.

 

I relive the confusion of that day,

asking without reply, “Why me?”

 

I have been left to ponder

the mystery since age thirteen.

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