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The rage.
Like blood coagulates.
Turning black.
On the hands
it stains.
Lasting pain.
Which will not fade.
Must
make peace.
With what remains.
Yet the rain.
May wash
it away.
Leaving the hands.
Completely unscathed.
And
the sun.
Shall shine brighter that day.
As the hands.
Stretch
up from the grave.