Stand in a field of wispy brown grass
Cut in segments by dusty crossroads
Time is short, will soon breathe it's last
Make a choice at this crossroads
Bones chatter and quake with yawning marrow
Both scared and bored of what's lost
Vocal cords sound like the dying sparrow
Screams turned to whispers when lost
Whisper they, softly, and shift them the blades
Wind floats through grass, calling name
Insides are funny, are changed yet the same
Heart inside chest, calling name
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