Grace

Nobel grace I have not as I enter in the room.

Quiet pain is harnessed by the weavers of the twisted loom.

A sunset I may not folly as I reach to take a stand.

Amid the timid laughter my time will arrive as I hold vigilance on dry land.

When love will exhaust me, my presence will known, as a vestige of nerviness and pride in my physical state.

Where did you capture such thunder in a womb of bitter hate.

There resides a meager relic of a sweeter human race.

So forgo the carnal escapade we dissimulate with words shared a like threads of the seamstresses lace.

To craft a vessel unto my pride.

I shall sale be throttled away from glares of those who lied.

I walk in footprints reversed by grace.

No more embittered relics of a time already erased.

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