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From: nick
My Autumn
Eyes of the meek, stoked like coals in the furnace of an exploratory gaze, seldom burn with signs of life. The spirit that is there flickers and fades away, dampened and defeated by the trials inflicted by strife, waking only to the old nightmares of dreaded gray. On the eve of the dead, draped in the sorrow of yesterday, they watch skeletons of children once known manifest and play. Struck with a case of serenity, isolation becomes an enigmatic state, opted to be solved at more worthy date, a lions key to another reality. The violin of autumn plays its shrill music, dancing to it the naked trees and broken leaves. Eyes tormented by an absence of security, impostors and lies, withers and dies.