Sometimes those on earth are the truly dead.

Darkness dwells upon my soul,
Plans are formed for final goal.
Pain that aches and rocks me thru,
Starts each morning like it’s new.
Fight grows less as time does pass,
Spiritual yes, but hold no mass.
Time approaches, let’s me know,
Doubt I’ll see another snow.
Think not of me as some dreadful knave,
It is not I lying in that grave.
Other pieces by Clay:
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