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Take me to momma, this is all I'd ask
for the cold now sets within, seeking out my heart.
Take me home to momma, this I beg of thee
I cannot feel my legs, please do not leave me be;
the lead-coated shell is lodged deep at my side
so take me home to her, make haste before I die.
Do not tell her of my fame, my ill begotten name
Do not tell her of my deeds, those truth would bring her pain;
Nor of the bible she gave to me, now enshrouded in dust
Not of the gun beside my bed, wherein you find no rust.
I had thrived in muddy paths, I have left a bloodied trail.
Each night drowned me in my guilt, and I found no peace by day.
If one must tell her of my shame, of the sinful life I lead,
make bare the perfect I feigned; then that someone must be me.
You may find her in the Church, kneeling keenly at the cross
praying dearly to her God, praying for her only son.
She would always say to me; 'Son, be weary of that lad
who lives only by the gun, for by that gun he shall die'
So little did she know, that little boy of hers
with whom she shared those words, in a short while would die
and standing in his stead, blood thirsty and vile
would be the very lad she warned her son about.
Place me gently at her feet so that I may humbly kneel
penitent and clothe in shame, I'd plead mercy for my sins.
Let me lay upon her lap and echo pleas till I lose breath
let me lay there for perhaps I'd know some peace before my death.
But ere we leave here one more thing,
I wish to know of what could be
If I lay on her my sins,
could her heart take all of it?
©AlphaSage
Aloft In Thoughts
20.01.2017
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