It was too blackened,
Like a piece of gold,
Covered with coal,
The pot calling the kettle black,
It had held too much,
Stifled too much,
It held all the broken pieces,
The many knives on its back,
It was no longer beating,
Hardened into nothingness,
A black bubble surrounded it,
Not sinister,
Not evil,
Not hatred,
Just pride,
Vengeance,
It was just but a blackened heart
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