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As the years turn to decades and bones become dust

Leeches, never given an inch, nor do they repent

Soul stricken; form crushed

As the vultures descend to dry the bones of tendon and flesh

And the centuries seam together

I'm standing, alone, at the behest of your wimper

Grief overcome by a still sadness, in the hands that used to hold me

Callous skin and dried bones

Smiting the Earth as if it were your throat

Prying the wound open, by the gnashing of teeth

In my skin of resin, there is no release