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Poetic-Verses

THE COLOR OF BLOOD


While it is yet morning,
It sends off its smell;
A murderer has done this.
With a passion to kill, he raised
His dagger
And a soul fell by.
"I am blood", it shouts as it
Pours out
Spelling wickedness by each flow
Who has done this?
Who is the murderer?
He talks to blood
An unquenchable flame.
© westminister2 - all rights reserved.

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THE COLOR OF BLOOD

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