By Conrad Pierce
Stone like a statue, grave like concrete.
Weather stricken, heart still ticking.
Skin as a tree, rough as bark yet ready to fall.
Engulfed in the soil, cold blood could never boil.
Scars dark as oil, reminiscent of a time past.
Trees as the cover, estranged to any other.
Before the stoned statue, much before the time asked you.
Another face as crowd, not saying much just yelling loud.
Fire behind the motives, replaced as the times in mind.
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