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This was the kind of pain

That could turn blood lines to blurred scribblings,

And admiration, to disdain.

It could turn the flames of love, into frosty feelings

It could make you drenched

With heavy downpours of scorn,

Like a person, devoid of a shed;

Vulnerable to the merciless rainstorm

She never expected that, a bag full of agony

Would be the price for euphoria.

But the foreseen joy was more than any kind of fee

Life would require of her

Her weary body

Was about to cross the finish line

That had witnessed the downfall of so many

Who got hurt, on a race track that was meant to be benign

Her pain-induced euphoria

Was heralded by cries of hurt;

Not from her,

But from a new cohort.

The vapid designs and homely decoration

Were the legacies left by the surgeon.

-Esther Ajari

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