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I Write Short Stories

The walls are thicker and higher than ever before
Up high in the sky are 4 fire breathing dragons
To burn to crisp whoever dares to cimb so high
At the bottom sits a faceless solider
Who sits and waits paitenty
For he is the warrior
My heart in a wooden chest
Locked up
The keyhole is my doorway
For soul to venture out
But it is skitterish hesitant
Distanced
As it prefers the comfort of the battered heart
The battered heart is healing
Just more patchwork
Its healing..its disarrayed
But the soul is destroyed
Yet the solider waits just to glimpse
The beauty of the rare soul
The damaged soul.

 
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