In poetry, we remember the forgotten and the forgettable, recognizing the energy we give to what we pay attention to, invites us to look anew at all that were overlooked and not appreciated in the past.
I am but a fractured spirit, a warrior amidst the ruins of a life once vivid and whole. Lately, my ponderance reveals a world that I once knew has now drifted into a distant isolation. The year of anew has summoned a different awakened fatigue, a drain with an unseen weight that now erodes the bonds with all that once mattered. Within this shadowed isolation, I find my sanity quietly devouring, with fragments scattered by illusions of my own making. In those unguarded moments of insecurity, the apparition of my own end ascends with a cruel uncertainty, disturbing the way I yearn to be. I crave nothing more than to resurrect the man I once knew, a warrior of unyielding strength, passion and resilience. Somewhere, in the endless tides of time, that self worth was been faulted, leaving behind a weakened soul and a tired old man. This m erciless aging thing, has been far from a graceful progression, it's just been a bitter reminder of a lost youth, the c ontradictory refra...
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