A pin prick
A knife stick
Pain is real
Pain is quick
It is a slow burn
You cannot feel
Until it’s too late
And you cannot heal
Pain is profound
It is lost and it is found
Your soul
Is its hiding ground
From hate it is wrought
From fear is sought
Run fast
Before you are caught
Devour of it what you plan
Ye may be but a mortal man
Stronger souls
Forge from it what they can
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