Faces

Never again said she,
Weakness is an impurity,
Staining the hands of the pure.
One after another her hands rose to her face,
The index finger lay motionless on her crown.
Making her way from the peak southward,
Onto a vast terrain of caves and crevices.
Only to come to a bridge,
Curiously she crosses, unknowing what lay beyond.
A curve of great distinction lay in her path,
Heaving a sigh of sustained relief as she sees a clearing ahead.
Only to find upon reaching her destination,
Hands and feet drenched in blood.
As to her possessions,
A heavy heart filled with sobering pain,
And a soul near extinction, existing only as a memory of what was.

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Write4Fun.net was established in 1997, and since then we have successfully completed numerous short story and poetry competitions and publications.
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