a shaved head, I grind,
eyes jabbed blind
the unseen, still perceive
so fly to hold the blood-stained tree
for I've no recourse bearing me to cope
because I have been reckoned as already dead
and seek the resurrection bread
of the empty vault, but presently ahead
even if the word doesn't rhyme in time
or in my benighted mind
I cannot continue the same
--for 'son' is in my name
for...

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