A vexing, little question
Nagged for some time now,
Rattled around in my noggin:
Why would he bother
To swing his scythe, so gruesomely,
For such small harvest, little sprite,
This little girl, little stumbling fawn,
Occupying an inconsequential space,
His malevolent lump wedged in her head
(A spoonful makes the medicine go down).
With so few, simple thoughts there:
Mommy, sister, kitty, school, seashells?
Why fill her little world
With weighty words: medulloblastoma,
Chemotherapy, radiation, hospice?
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