A squeal of brakes.
Or is it a birth cry?
And here we are, hung out over the dead drop
Uncle, pants factory Fatso, millionaire.
And you out cold beside me in your chair.
...
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Onomatopoeic use superbly gave a musical magical effect..death fear every where...Sad Hamlet, with a knife? Where do you stash your life?
This poem of yours, even if just used as the tiniest of valves, helped one brave tortured soul to process unimaginable horrors and gave her an audible whisper, instead of despair-bringing muteness, which transformed to a battle cry capable of bringing down entire monarchies. Thanks for writing it.