strewn words of kindness
but for conjecture,
because conviction needs no guidance
when hatred consumes the heart.
icy finger-tips burn, bite, sting, leave
traces of the inky blackness
on the soul, deprived of mercy
from oneself.
cowering in a crowded room,
empty but for deprecating thoughts,
the noble cry, brought to nothing
and their knees.
decemberthirtiethwothousandtwelve
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