SHRAPNEL
What is this shrapnel 'neath my
skin? It's festering, it hurts. It
is a wound that I still must carry -
a heavy loaf of really bad bread,
now coated with postules and sores.
Oh so sorry for me, I am.
-
What is this shrapnel beneath my skin?
It is happiness in pockets beaming.
And of well I remember the wounding
and hold it dear still. And, and so
happy for me, I am.
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