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Poetry
Top voted Poetry
#450351voted by our readers
By Anonymous
There is blood on my hands My blood, crimson and spent. I walk through fields of fallen leaves And wonder when I sent life away from me, Flecks of red chip upon my sticky skin...
There is blood on my hands My blood, crimson and spent. I walk through fields of fallen leaves And wonder when I sent life away from me, Flecks of red chip upon my sticky skin...