327

For eight years, I followed unbecoming
paths, rows pre-furrowed to make a living;
while my insides burned with mighty roaming,
my flesh stayed still, convinced I was giving:
I've killed that shade, that shadow of my truth –
like a mighty warrior's soul that  bled
itself into oneness with endless youth,
the immortality of being dead:
Bright arms were clashed, the heavy swords did clang;
one self in bright bronze, the true one in gold –
weary arms and legs, then suddenly sang
a well hewn dart zipping in from the cold:
And the craving self fell into instant
death by the arrow my destiny sent.

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