As rain washes away my defiled dreams, I hold fast to the mask of sadness leaving gravity to suspend its duty one last night. Time cuts thick into my yellow soul, hope having long ago left me dejected and begging for God's detition. The last instant I hope will be tranquil for God doth save his mundane tasks for the weakest men.
I am left to cull what is left of my defeated spirit. Empty are my arms, desperate for redemption, leaving my sin to fester on the vine. My Jaunt transcends my cognition, while peace is trapped outside my grasp. And joy becomes ash drying upon the taste of my tongue.
My station is at last circumscribed, I repeat the prayer I spoke as a shaver. My savior's ears will curtail all sound save his most brave zealots. I am alone in my pyrrhic victory over love, forever the general of defeated and low men, returning merely as conquerors stained with kindred blood.
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