YoRKshIRe's wRaTh

YoRKshIRe's wRaTh

RedsThunders

Born in the shadow of the moors, blood-soaked skies,
Knuckles cracked, grip tight, no more disguise.
Crows circle the fields, dirt under nails,
Whispered vows to the dark, the Yorkshire Dales.

Steel bite in me hand, bl…

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