Tears of My Fingertips Cry out for Sound.
They twist and turn in Anxious Grievances.
The Feeling of Life lost on Providence.
How Nothing can be Taken Back from Wounds.
What that Message tells me is not a Rose.
But the Vice of teh Thumb Screw its Horror.
The Plight of the Slave Freed and Recaptured.
Brought to Point Zero reminded of THorns
Sentimental Rose Water over Leaves.
The Greenig of the Season with Crosses.
Born Time and Again on those who Freed Us.
Who brought the Cheek of Forgiveness to Grief.
How it Hurts Me to Know how Little Love
Can Pass Over an Alltar so Beloved.
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