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Remorse of the Reavers   Crestfallen feathers and Spindlewood smoke exhaust from the clashing Colossals asunder The wail of the bairn crosses plains unforeseen  towards her cove where the she-beast lay broken
No one had prepared me For Winter. That black cold Struck you to the bone. Not even the moon shone Through my smog.  
I've been here before. Desolate feelings creep in before I get a chance to close this door, once again.
The song of my soul is playing, The beat entrapping me, surrounding me Lifting me up at all times, So why is your shroud still here?   No matter how far I run, I could even fly away,
Terror and fright consume me: Light leaves and dark trails behind me. I am forever alone with no one near or close, In this secluded island, I stand morose.
This is Home By R. M. Otto
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