More Stone

It is an impulse that grows stronger,
the urge to escape. It is the protest,
a prisoner speaking out who says:

"smuggle my soul through the gate;
split my heart in many directions".

They followed with brutality unlike
any attack that marked the beginning
to an end, their first thoughts-

peace is a funeral, the mourners
become the prize. In the cemetery
the wounded grow weaker, smaller,

less human more stone.

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