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SOUL-WORN
My soul grew old before its prime,
Bespattered, stained, and gored with grime,
From anguished dreams and darkest crime,
My soul, the refugee.
The calendar aged slower still,
My heart entwined with vines until
The weedy tendrils choked my will,
My soul, in lock and key.
Those nearest couldn't comprehend
My soul, descended to its end.
Instead, they tried to recommend,
My soul to oversee.
A silent Voice, as if on cue;
A gentle saber pierced me through,
Unchained my pain and made me new.
My soul, at last, was free.
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The poor old soul was sitting in his rickety old chair.
Too poor in spirit, too old in body to care in his despair.
Soul is
by Alain Simard
Eyes
Looking in eyes
Eyes that have seen
So much
Almost too much
Eyes that have lived through
What others can't imagine
So much
SOUL-WORN
My soul grew old before its prime,
Bespattered, stained, and gored with grime,
From anguished dreams and darkest crime,
My
by Asif Joosub
Old souls
Know their time is near
Before times final leap they try new goals
Looking left and right to rectify every caused
"Field trip to Hell"
Light door, door of light, portal
untold by U.N. might,
the numbers of people charmed
to it's sight,
so bewitched
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