Words of long ago
Burn to the God of War,
And return as the King of Hell,
To imprint scars,
Shaped like birthmarks.
The newborn cries,
Not from fresh air bursting its lungs,
But from the birthmarks,
Soaked in black.
“The scars of the past,
Become the scars of the future,”
Says the Devil.
“Unless we break the cycle,”
Whispers the Angel.
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Published by Claire M
I am an adventurer and seeker of truths at heart.
I’ve come to the conclusion that I am unable to solely hold one passion dear to my heart, but many. I am passionately curious and endlessly thirsty for clarity. I am drawn to animal care & rescue, humanitarian & environmental pursuits, but also the arts, literature, films, music, dance, spirituality and psychology.
I continue my journey as an observer, a thinker, a photographer, a writer, a poet, and a traveller.
I currently reside in the foothills of Alberta, Canada.
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