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Grave Robbing
Where has my smile run off to?
Oh, I don't pretend that it's gone entirely,
that it doesn't make any appearances.
But that's not the dilemma.
It doesn't stay for long,
doesn't have a home here anymore -
and that's what I mean to decry.
When you say that you've broken down
on the side of the road,
it's supposed to mean your car.
Not the wash of memories in the morning,
the pressure smacking you the moment you wake,
the toil of every godless-damned second.
Every day I want nothing more than rest;
but it flees from the sight of me,
cackling at the daily victory of its whim.
I want it back, all of it -
my smile, my sleep...
them.
When folks talk about grave robbers,
usually they mean some nefarious men
desecrating the dead, pilfering the perished.
In my case, the roles are reversed.
The six, the slain, those stolen from me,
while it's not their fault...
They are the thieves.
Copyright ©
Andy Sprouse
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