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Chemotherapy
Turn around and stare
at a time when you had hair.
Before days rolled into night.
When you could still recite
what you would hope to be
before you were thirty-three.
But thirty-four has gone,
with a further twenty-one
and all you have to show
are cells that continually grow
and crush you as you cry,
as you wish that you could die,
and leave all the pain behind-
the fruits of a chemical kind.
© Mohammed Miah. 2003.
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