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Died with Him
Old blood, the color of chocolate, stains deep, steeped into the tightly woven fabric. The wounds fresh in memory cannot be washed away. The touch of iron pounded through live flesh. The vision of pain, his eyes alive in the depths of agony. The spear that pierced a heart. In linen wrapped the sight, the marks of death. My death wrapped within that cloth. My blood soaked into its fibers. Laid, buried the stains.
an Easter meditative poem
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