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Grave
Grave
I am the scythe that cuts through old and young
In cornfields where the idle crows watch on
As scarecrows flap their arms in summer sun
And wonder where the greedy birds have gone
The weeds grow now where once the sharp blade fell
Stealing from us all that we once held dear
There are no devils in this weeping hell
Only children transformed through pain and fear
...Tuesday 24th March 2020 11:43 pm
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