How can I claim compassion
when I eat death,
wear death,
wrap my cards and coins
in death?

Killed behind closed doors
so I don’t see their struggle,
so I don’t hear their screams.

Killed behind closed doors
by a man forever trapped on the brink
of his own mental precipice.

How can I complain compassion
when I have seen the truth
and yet bury it deep within,
for my own convenience?

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