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She is slowly beginning to die
Like a flower right after its bloom
She cannot help but wonder why
They would fill her with such gloom

Her body is growing weak
Like a flower as it begins to wilt
Its inability to support is bleak
Her body cannot take the pain; this was not why it was built

Her finger nails, painted black
Like the tips of the dying leaves
She has been told she cannot go back
And this, she does believes

She sits there solemn
As she writes this deathly poem
She finds this a problem
Like the dying flowers, she has no one