To be, To not be Heard
Small delicate fragile bodies that drip from the tip of the tongue
Of the dog who lays underneath the
Miles of death and decay- who gently
Lays them in their graves.
They never have a voice only made up of mumbles of sorrow
And swirls of despair.
They’re here because nobody wanted them
They know very well that their lives only add up
To the sharp point of the knife that’s shoved into their short lives. Heart no longer
There. Only the soft beat of their
Broken bones that tremble out of fear.
Fear that is outside of the comfortable coffin they’ve nailed
They like the darkness because nobody can see the insides that are filled
They cry out of their mouths with silent screams.
Nobody can hear a dead body.
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