The Standered Secrets of Stealing a Soul

My words, my wording,

but not my name?

The thief has stolen the writing of my soul,

the thoughts of my present,

the lies of my to be,

and past the history, right through me.

My sorrow, of anguish,

My anger, of joy,

The momumentous applause for my work,

Yet my recognition is void.

I wish to feel, to feel and be,

My work engulf me, and allow me, to be free.

Yet the joys and jubilations,

The saddness and sorrow,

The wind as its wists past tomorrow,

Reveal the truth to me.

I cannot be free.

My work, is not mine.

The cage none but my own.

My sorrow is sorrowless,

As the shadows become my home.

The End

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