Lost in a walled garden, cloistered from the prying eyes of a bustling world littered with throw away lies and misplaced attention, the truth is never as it seems. Locked away is a tempest. A raging maelstrom hewn from the depths of uncertainty and doubt, dressed and veiled in the finery of false idols of the dog and pony show life. Eyes closed it’s a perilous descent into unyielding malice inflicted upon the self; damage wrought wholesale tearing up what’s left of a failing heart, mired and tired, off beat and inflamed with nary a pulse of love. Tiresome it rages, the limitless tempest few will ever see but which many weather on their own. Out on the fragile surface, youth will bloom, a carefully manicured artifice of peace and beauty that betrays a tainted, feral reality roiling below. May calm come to thee, ye who conquers self.
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