Black as bog, in turmoil and in pain,
fraught with the faceless, demons and darkness.
But better still to suffer, than to weather the mundane,
than to walk the rutted road, built by the daily throes
of those who would not dare to tread, the road less wandered,
lest they fall among the dying, and the dead.
The future, is black and uncertain.
The present, yields society's burden.
But lest we surrender, to despair
we gaze to glories, that like a golden bird a-flare,
rend the void, and through the shadows tear.
We watch the beating of our hearts, the quickness of our veins,
as we remember the vaunted names,
of loves long forgotten, of friendship's sturdy ties,
and golden days that we recall, as they flash before our eyes.
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