deepundergroundpoetry.com

Healed
Clouds drift
past
the
Moon.
Everything
is
right
&
in
it’s
rightful
Place,
Into
gleam
of
blade
Made
for
the
Craft
of
the
Kill:
Bleed
out
into
Nothingness,
nothing less
than
nothing
more
to
feel;
Now you
are
Healed.
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