Poems

Red o’ Blood

Crimson tide that washed over me,
With gruelling pace, it broke free.
To where life was but a dread,
Not full of miracles, but misery.

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The Summit

Snow-capped, pristine as the Realm above,
Glistening brightly as the Sun greets her,
Tranquil and undisturbed, pure as a dove,
Yet Chaos is not unknown to her,
As she shrouds the graves of unfulfilled dreams;
Of winning her, with her white shroud.

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