Short Poem: Broken Words

No one sings anymore of the day
when the life that we lived was but clay.
How we molded our futures back then,
and how soon we were caught in this pen.
They pretend that a choice
—but to give up your voice—
between life and the grave
was a boon that they gave.
In the end
you did bend;
but I spoke,
and I broke.

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