Clutching at life
When the alleged dead shall rise
To haunt us in the deep of night
With their lungs
Gasping for air
Their eyes full of horror
Clutching at life
As it gallops away
Shall we beg them
To quietly return
To their alleged heavens
And hells
And leave us
In our earthly limbo
Our foreheads bleeding
From the thorns
Scratching our conscience
That no balm can ever assuage?
Pina Piccolo
Palm Sunday 2017
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