Beauty born of death,
So it is said.
Has the pain purged my soul,
Or has it grown morose instead?
Need to change or rearrange,
Sever or detach.
Seeking joy amongst the lows,
Need an awakening to catch.
Scarlet colored ravens hover,
Round my head.
Soot fills my shoes with heaviness,
An illusion births a dark night of dread.
I search for the lighthouse of heaven's door,
Turn on your gaze.
Fighting to break against the current,
Arms of grace, hold me on a lifting raise.
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