Behindhand

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Thee does not feel thy pain?

How is that so, when the knife is embedded so deep?

The thought of revenge was all to cold,

and perhaps boiled for too long.

How does thou's heart still beat?

Crimson is quite divine on silver,

  an impressive capture of breath.

Thee still feels no pain?

Not an ache, a trob, not even a sting?

My good man should be dead,

  yet only speaks of light.

How curious, the phantom has not reached,

He is very behindhand.

Thee is not even cold,

  Perhaps thy mortal,

    Just isn't due.

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