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It started with a kiss, sticky strawberry ChapStick,
and rudimentary tribal markings on my shirt collar,
pink against the clean and pure. The lights went out
as we forgot about the kiss.

We felt the explosion in the Middle East
moving through to the civilisations of the west,
and she felt the marching of the soldiers
as they took the target in their sights.

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It never occurred to me that having to type into a keypad
to get out of the room was odd; with what had just happened,
I wasn’t thinking clearly.

The blood poured from her eyes as she chased me,
wrapped in the skin of her miscarriage.
It cried, perfectly in sync with the
little red light on the camera.

But the God of the Hall appeared
and He smote them with ferocity
and succinctness. They never leave here.

You will never leave the BrassWorks.