When the ashes beat the wind

Not many sweet things will they utter

For her tone was harsh, and pierced through the guards they assembled

She disbelieved in coated rhythms so her revelations swirled naked

Though her depth was well within known limits, the pillars remained fortified across ranges,

Flawed and profound

Not many sweet things will they utter,

For she burned in angst, and her fire was witnessed,

A trepidation she foresaw, so her dance she cut short,

Though her sanity withered as they seeped away the voices from her lungs

Her sight remained lucid

Tired and True,

Though they will not utter many sweet things,

she persists

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