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The Art of Death
Soul-tired,
Weary-eyed,
Arms ascended heavenwards,
Surrendering to the inevitable.
Blindfold shoved on in haste,
Shielding the upcoming future
From an age-wizened face.
Three. Two. One.
Bullets puncture mocha-colored skin,
Ripping past cotton barriers.
A masterpiece of red, steel, warm flesh.
Artwork worthy of the artists:
The brutal firing squad.
Artwork worthy of the masterpiece:
A martyr succumbing to fate.
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