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Virtue

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Little pieces have been left
For the sinners and the saints to toy with
Glued
The cracks in the glass highlighted by a painted sun
And hidden by the shadows
The truth in all sincerity is sad and long
He was a man of image
A man of stature
When he spoke words of wisdom people listened

In the dark of night
The pavement turns cold
Palms scraping against the little rocks of it
The people stand on the curbs
Some cry, some laugh
The bodies lie; dead and alive

He says he does not wish to be idolized
Everybody wants to be the prophet, but nobody wants to be crucified
No worship
No royalty should come from scraped knees and bloody tears
No one wants the pain or seeks the loneliness power provides but,
The night has come again





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