Below the fine film
of skin
which clings
to once glorious bones
would you find
who I once was
or over look
the decay
stating
"there is nothing here."
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Poems written by me. Not written in any particular style they simply express how i was feeling at that moment in time.
Beautiful. This reminds me of the "Bodies" display in the museum where they have preserved the organs and tissue of executed Chinese prisoners without their skin, as if to say, "Here are the bones, the muscle, the organs, the tissue- but where is the soul?"
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