By Anita Clark

Cancer is a spider;
Growing legs,
Branching out…,
It lays it’s eggs…..

It grows it envelops it’s weakest targets,
Smelling fear,
Succumbs to harm it.

In it’s traditional,
Slow-grown death,
It eats, it spreads,
While you decay.

Sometimes in a tumour form,
It will grow,
Will starve,
Your internal structure.

Weakens as it wraps,
Around so tightly….
You’re gagged and bound.

It could choke you,
It will starve,
Your infested brain will drive you mad.

The death knell of secondary cancer,
The waiting,
The wasting (away) ,

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