The Writer's Voice
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Alice C. Bateman
The rock of pain becoming sand
Slowly sifting through my hand
The tide of guilt recedes a trace
A shaft of light, an open space
Rebirth, traumatic, terror fraught
Nine years, not months, life dearly bought
Hate so intense I wished him dead
Have tried to kill him in my head
Is life for him the hell I've seen?
Has he been down to where I've been?
Nine years I've fought to free my soul
Am I now, finally, near my goal?
Can blood forget? Be cleansed of stain?
Do black clouds father blackened rain?
Forgive, forget, a rape of mind
Years lost forever, left behind
With broken dreams
Like bits of glass
Left shattered, broken
'Neath the grass
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