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Cracks and explosions in the night. The outer field in which we call home is far away. The shining metal streaks the sky until it pierces the skin. In doing so, it leaves its red stain Its mark of pain. It slowly drains, leaving nothing but red on the once clean. Smearing in streaks, and the muffled cries of children haunt the night. Against the loud shots of guns and shouts of men, a small voice can be heard. The voice of a starving, stranded child, crying in its last breath. And when it's all over, and the world is shattered and torn, crumpled in time, we go back and pick up the pieces, and start anew. Until again, the shelter breaks, and the blood runs free like rivers, across the ground.

-Jenni Kirby

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