They are nothing but scars,
crafted over grave of wars,
gleaming in crimson jars.
They are hears that grow teary,
washing off every mystery,
as company spills misery.
They will sleep and hatch,
to rise up with raging match,
that life cannot even catch.
When cold creeps to toe,
stay with three or two,
leave them all black too.
Cause they are nothing,
but scars.
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