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  • Writer's pictureCurious Observer


O wind, beseech this bleeding heart of mine. It neither hurts nor stops, Only pours blood akin to wine.
The intoxication is slowly seeping into my eyes. The dews of an early winter morning rejoice. Only the tempest can quell the noise within. The mind no longer cares for the sojourn or the sin.
Had I caved in and cried, I would have been unburdened. Yet, I continued the toil; Regretful, remorseful, and saddened.

— Curious Observer

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