Warm

His hand 
Still warm, 
The dry skin 
Of callous 
And the cuts 
That wept 
Blood born 
In crooked 
Bone and 
Star core 
Hadn’t had a
Chance to heal.
In the sterile 
Anonymity 
Of hospital 
Sheets,
3 days growth 
Of stubble 
Graced a face 
Placid as in 
Sleep while 
Men with Doctorate
Degrees
Couldn’t do a
Damned thing but  
Drill holes 
In a skull
Filled with 
Worlds and more
Worlds 
That would never be 
Again. 

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