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My poem. I drew the “line” across the sands; vowed to hide my “age” with shimmery mica and reddish lead. Little did I know the beauty lies within the understanding that lives were taken to bury the dead.

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My poem. These “soldiers of the gods…” are many, whose thoughts are known only to a few and whose reason to live is for those that believe in love.

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My poem. “why not…” to cry anymore: when you’ve suffered enough to accept your fate. Stolen tears of youth, now lost and forgotten by the ravages of time.