There are wounds that should kill us but don’t
And they leave purple scars on our flesh and souls
That we hide with hats or the motions of a well adjusted life
But the truth of those wounds is that we did die
A piece of us, a part of our peace and the childhood
Belief that everything will always be alright.
You died the day the shrapnel struck you down
And rose a ghost - a different body with less hope
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