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When all seems lost And hope has fled What solace can I find But that of ink and paper. The pen is mightier Than the sword But some nights The sword wins.
The splendor of Freshly fallen snow, Can be compared not To that of man’s creation For creations of steel and sweat Lack the life of a fresh fallen snow.
What sweet relief Found only under The sweet ministrations Of razor’s edge, Noose’s end and Pill bottle bottom.
When the smoke clears Rubble stands, The system broke And death walks free.
It’s nights like these that I wander the streets And thing, am I worth As much to you as You mean to me.