Writer’s Apocalypse

Where have those times gone when words mattered.
Every dramatic line, from the romantic trust to the vengeful betrayals,
Every poetic dream, now it all just seems shattered.
Lost are the sounds of musicals and those sonnets, ballads and the brave tales.
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Paths of people collide as you walk along life, a forest so dense.
What I see through my eyes is that there is no such thing as a coincidence.

The sun of the day and the water conspired against the moon,
They made a few clouds and kept them ready for June,
Upon it’s arrival they made it rain that night, and called this conspiracy “the monsoon”

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The Last Wish

Spare me the horror of another failure when all hope is lost,┬áit hurts even a heart made of rock when it knows it’s actual cost.

Holy spirts kill the burden upon my shoulders so I can spread the wings, I’m tired of breathing so I pray for the golden ring.

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