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Curse of a Broken HeartDark nights and darker days,
Slowly, sweetly my life decays.
I want to leave, destroy this place,
Too much sadness I can't take.
I was so strong, I used to smile,
All I feel now is bitter and vile.
My eyes clamped shut, I hate to see,
All this hell that surrounds me.
Dream of places where sun shines,
A little cottage with growing vines.
Honeysuckle and gentle flowers,
Where I could sit and lay for hours.
Grass that grows above my knees,
Muffled humming of the bees.
A quiet breeze that lifts my hair,
A floral scent that fills the air.
Crickets singing in the grass,
A secret place, no one can pass.
With little pots along the wall,
Collecting water in rainfall.
Dainty leaves and majestic trees,
A silent roar of windy leaves.
The sky a wash of pastel blue,
Some fluffy clouds, but only a few.
The weirdest thing, of it all,
It's something I can barely recall.
The place I'm sitting in right now,
Matched so similarly somehow.
It doesn't now, i can assure,
Nothing like that, not anymore.
Poetic PsychosisIn thirty seconds, the next shell would fall. Every night was the same, but every night Lorenzo experienced it as if it were the first time. His throat felt swollen; breathing was hard. He glanced around at the others; young men like him who had been shipped out in the name of honour and freedom. There was no honour in this, no freedom. Only death behind your eyelids, and a fear so gutting, that it carved out your innards and left you a hollow husk. Lorenzo tried to breathe, tried to assure himself that he was still whole, still made of flesh. They had lied when they told him he was ready.
Matteo ran towards him, arms out, rifle swinging uselessly at his side. He shouted for him to run, but Lorenzo remained motionless, unable to move as his friend’s warning was lost in the constant blare of gunfire. None of them were ready.
“The cycle is repeating. It is not safe.” The voice was soft and weak, yet it carried over the gunfire and battle cries without impediment.
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