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They Are

They are shooting me
And I am being shot
In this house
Where you took me

You drove me
They are holding candles
To my burning face
Like wasteful paper

I am on the left side
Of the beloved chair
Where your mother
Gave birth to your

Yellowing fingers
Now, they are hacking at me
With blunt instruments
And someone seeming to be lion-like

Observes lifelessly.

    I plan to revise this poem: please leave constructive criticism!
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