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I said once this place was where dreams came to die,
So why am I happy here?
I can see the years etched into these peoples faces,
On line for every life they should have lived but didn’t.
Creased skin coating arthritic bone;
Comatosed souls in caracasses.
Defiant if not alive.
Because there’s not an eye that doesn’t glisten with mischief in this prison.
Solidarity and laughter while we peel back the skin on our knuckles and chip away bone.
As though the blue plasters can patch up the damage from years where it didn’t trickle down.
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