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by Jon Beherends
Cold, cold, cold day, matches my hearts feelings,
Wind tugs at my coat on October nights,
Good cast aside, victim of evil dealings.
No reminescence of colorful spring kites,
Just fear and dismay, all evil deeds borne,
The sting and hurt of sad, violent fights.
Stench of a new sin makes my poor heart scorne,
The weakness of heart that lies in my breast,
The time of shame comes, time to softly mourn.
Can I go on, can I follow the rest?
I can, I will, I must; this is the test
Hard it might be, it is what I know best.
(c) 2001 The Breaking Room