With this, I'm out of publishable poems again.
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St. Jude
Paper cuts in a million places, pen is mightier than the sword,
Sticks and stones will break your bones and so will potent spoken word.
Ink will fail to hold the faith you put in stroke and slant each day.
Rainbows will yield gold and, yet, your master's brush will paint in grey.
Warm will be your summer wine and cold will be your winter mead!
Scorch you may the land, but forests still will spring from springtime seed!
Light will be the blade you lift, their blood to spill, their hearts to cleave;
Weighted sins will lift your pride but you will die by songs they leave.
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