The
Sword
Cruel
compositions will carry me no further,
But
only by the sweat of man shall I be delivered by the forging of festering
scars.
And
is it by temperance that I be molded so firm?
I
dream of an age when words cut like steel and still hold strong with the
fragility of a feather.
What
a dangerous shadow we leave behind for those who must stand in it.
Dare
I tempt the fates to wake another day to one such as this?
A
day when man’s first waking thought is that of himself and not of his lot.
Perhaps
when reason and faith’s ashes have been scattered to a sea of regret,
I
shall be free again.
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