A burden well worn

Tis a burden well worn, that familiar satchel borne, the grief one carry forward, when the future is torn. For there is no method, to the madness of the moment, just deliberate steps, into the waiting maelstrom. A wicked darkness yawns, waiting for those marked, to the boundary we march, into the final chasm. Adieu, au revoir, bon chance, sois heureux.

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