somewhere
in the heart of a curse
spewed with the anger
of what was stolen,
lies a quiet prayer
at the altar of a temple,
a fragile flower
lowering it's head
to its own death,
with petals strewn
across the emptiness
of what was,
of what must be,
felt and spoken
without words.
of what was stolen,
lies a quiet prayer
at the altar of a temple,
a fragile flower
lowering it's head
to its own death,
with petals strewn
across the emptiness
of what was,
of what must be,
felt and spoken
without words.
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