There’s a little grave inside of me.
Who’s buried there, no one can see.
The etching on the stone,
is worn to the bone.
There is no name or epitaph.
No date of birth or death.
It is an empty slate,
marking the life
of one who came and left.
But who? No one knows,
except a single rose,
laid upon the dirt.
It remembers the one
who once was loved,
and can no longer hurt.
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Finding truth in fabrications, exaggerations, and complete nonsense.
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