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Lucas Schwerdt Apr 2017
no god praised by sin
nor honored by ink
Humans of their writing’s fin
spitting stains to sink

white charred leaves
fired script they blows
unmeant tragdy glarin'
kindled in its own rose

red heart breaks
out of adust batch

whispers pieces fakes
deafeningly mild
into profit’s choler’s match

douses the burn of bleed
unite faith of Kind
close turn one Breed

hate they freeze
equal near ’n‘ far

we

— The End —