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THESE TWO CLASPED HANDS
I know I will hold you in death
even with the quoins of rebirth.
Brother, stale as the air between
We died, yet you were buried as a twin.
If in the afterlife you find a hand
hold it till we become the sand.
Tell of these stories and hurt
wake of the undying sport.
To you I remember our tale
till the fate becomes what is in the mail.
I write to you from our grave
Of our healing, of the lies that shaved.
Here’s to the father of this sheet
listen to the next line hold your feet
In peace
Ruddapoet