Wednesday, August 31, 2016

Pangs

I heard tell
I heard tell of nothing
All a little fuzzy

It won't be us
It won't be us moving of our own
volition, sometimes
Sometimes you just want
to be forced

There were pangs
I heard about them
clenched, doubled over,
straining
I heard about them

There were paw prints
in the warm tar
There were scratches
from the brambles
on my arm

It won't be us
moving of our own
volition, released on our own
recognizance, we will have
to be dragged

You won't hear about
what happened
what happened to us
You won't be around
to hear

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