Where is it?
Is it behind or still in front?
Is it alive or dead?
Is its heart stil beating, pulsing, throbing,
When all is done and said?
Can I shovel dirt on its grave,
Its dirge begin to write?
Summon forth its pallbears
And bury it in the night?
Can A child like sprint be in me ,
As Its vise like grip unfolds?
And thus declare my freedom
From the carnage that it holds?
Is it behind, or still in front?
What importance do I place?
Do I dig its grave and bury it,
Or keep it face to face?
Is it alive or dead?
Is its heart stil beating, pulsing, throbing,
When all is done and said?
Can I shovel dirt on its grave,
Its dirge begin to write?
Summon forth its pallbears
And bury it in the night?
Can A child like sprint be in me ,
As Its vise like grip unfolds?
And thus declare my freedom
From the carnage that it holds?
Is it behind, or still in front?
What importance do I place?
Do I dig its grave and bury it,
Or keep it face to face?
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