The Little Boy On The Swing

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The Little Boy On The Swing

The little boy on the swing sang a song
But all the lips around can’t sing along:
A song he sang for each tear he hast shed,
A song again for each scar which once bled.

The little boy on the swing wore a mask
So all the eyes around won’t see to ask 
About the alter ego hid beneath;
The one who wept and bled but kept his grit.

The little boy on the swing played a harp
Held within his chin and upon his lap. 
A solemn symphony did he disperse
Peeling the vizard, he sung every verse.

For what is solitude without content
But sadness, despondency and lament? 

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