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Musings of a Mongoose - 20. Untitled Misery
I am a fond tragedy
The last rites of a dying god
Falling leaves in autumn
A shrine to what could have been
A whisper of secret gatherings in the hearts of men
Who wanted a better world
And died for the dream without ever waking
Weep not for me but for the nightmares
It is they which make the children cry out
Only soldiers and survivors know the quiet helplessness of my demise
Tragic that we were
We are not the world
We are its echoes in the dark
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