My portrait hath not possess
The beauty of a thousand words
Beauty is in the eye of the blindBeholder
Such is the reality that I possess
If it is not fate,
That lets my body brush the dormant sword
then righteousness has lost.
Lost in the endeavour to not let the past
Affect the morro’
As the rain becomes heavier on the Monday glass,
And the drops become stones,
Let my heart sink deep,
So I am protected from human nature
Let my heart harden,
So it will never feel again.
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