Poetry: Pharmacy Blues

We deal in death
it walks through the doors
in the shadows of the old
sometimes staying and circling
around the aisles and our thoughts
before leaving with another.
It is rarely committed to just one,
always fleeting, flitting
between one and the other.
We dole death out in small increments
it’s never enough to satisfy,
but what is at the very end.

r.l.w

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