A Soul Left Incomplete


Listening to the instrumentals of my soul,
I hear the trumpets calling out, begging me to be whole,
The very being that my soul has yet to meet,
Will be the very thing that causes my ever being to be complete,
I whisk away the sorrow of my youth,
As scars run away and begin to reveal my inner truth,
Rune-stones connect themselves on the ridges of my back,
Hoping to better my appearances and fill the dark spots that I lack,
Never have I touched a soul so pure,
Never have I found a disease that contains its corresponding cure,
Reminiscing on the pleasures of my past,
Recollecting the very treasures that never seemed to last,
I feel the sorrow of the souls left incomplete,
As I chase my own, aching, but not yet accepting defeat

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