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His mouth was open - the life trickling out

The blood-soaked curb would leave nothing to doubt.

Two to the chest and one to the head

Yes, No one would doubt that this bastard was dead.

Though the night was long, made dark by hate

And the air felt thick with pity and fate.

The red of the blood and the black of the rain

Danced silently together in my painting of pain.

And I knew I should think it again.

He was dead.