Often there's mile stones we come across,
definitive curves of destiny,
shaping the wounds the soul bares.
arking you; much like the territorial nature of animals;
scarring the core that seems to be you.
T'was long ago it was..
the raven had set soar.
Clipped as they were- the wings,
yet foolishly grew hope within.
Un-chartered skies- un-seeing eyes
met the tempest at it's prime.
Foolishly poor raven believed;
tempest carried her soul within.
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