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Hypoxemia

There’s a little bit of blood
on my breathe.
My blood,
breathing,
within vitality
as if sapped,
as if stopped.
 
My reaction
opposed to the dismal
ineptitude
is actually of a
nonchalant tone.
Almost mocking but
always marking.
 
There’s a little bit of air
blooming like a flower
on my brain.
My self,
flowing,
accosted by truth
as if repressed,
as if released.
 
Finally, a sigh of relief
 
© 2016 Parker Jennings

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