7-22-34
by Daigneault
The scalpel cuts or does it?
No I think it rips.
My soul now torn
Direction
I bleed
Not like you think
It ‘s slow
And dry and pain
Your words
I die again
Until
Or walk with folly
The blackbird speaks again
Dillon and Ger
And Lennon
To me
It speaks so still
The bullets
Filth but honest
That scalpel
Held again
As close
As we can go in words
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