Paradise, Lost

We are born into this sad, lonely, fallen world,

This transient place where life

Only gains meaning through death,

This brutal, savage race where light

Is defined only by its absence,

This cruel life that dooms us to failure,

And fates us to be further fallen

Each passing morn.


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A poet driven by the quill, a dreamer of impossible dreams, a lover of that which the world has deemed unlovable. We're all stories in the end. This is mine.

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