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202 WENDY SHORTRIDGE Blood Bath The ways of war slay me, the pity of war. Jabbed and killed, the groans and piteous cries of dying men. Twisted limbs, bloody clothes, distressful hands grasping for hands grown loath and cold. Universal cries for Mother crescendos from all decaying lips. Titanic wars devour as nations trek from progress, dull granite tombs enshrine the honored dead. Vain citadels to political standoffs, invasions of the spirit without stint. 203 I knew you in this dark, strange friend, I knew we stood in Hell. We sacrificed the wildest beauty in the world for graying, senile sycophants. ...

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