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Aceldama Crusts of prophecy spoil on leavened lips, water turns to sour wine. Temple priest’s pennies silver, need to own, betray, to crucify. Brick-dead hardened soil in barren potter’s field refuses to renew, absorb blood and brains bursting to frantic thunder pooling in serpent stench. Lone, angel nurtured tree stark against apocalyptic sky has grown heavy with devil knotted limb, lured the keeper of the coin, kissed Judaen bowels that gush about. |
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