Bloody the hands, from the grip of anger.
A rip and a tear, here or there.
Just enough time to make it hurt.
Jump to the cliff of sanity.
Lose your grip on vanity.
Nothing is truly beautiful in the eyes of the beholder.
What is there to see anymore?
Absolutely nothing; that's what.
That's all.
A hardened soul battered by the likes of hatred.
The crying widow on the hill.
A shadow upon her, chillingly caressing her being.
And there's no more beauty.
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