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his palms are sweaty knees weak arms are heavy theres vomit on his sweater already 
What if the canyons that ran on our hands Were scars from the crusades we never fought? And due to the restraints of our commands We never dared explore what we ought not.  
Both ironic and congruent in how the black mans hands bled in the same manner Jesus' did. Broken skin, a result, not of barabaric acts, but of the extended handshake with peace. Peeling along the life line, good-bye my brother.
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