Cancer is a spider;
Growing legs,
Branching out...,
It lays it's eggs.....
...
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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 no god never make me fear
A very powerful poem...Good work Anita.