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Unlocking the secret level of a nursing home

They're silver plated hair brushes,
dragged through knots and impolite.
Dipped cold in each clean morning,
smoothed out folds, of a fragile night.

Worn away with sea-shells,
thumb crushed and paper thin.
Open wide for spoon fed meals
and all the white that God brings in.

Gaming from their comfy chairs,
controlled by a picked at thread,
solving fragments of a final play,
Empty rooms, toss quiet beds.
Written by Razzerleaf
Published
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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