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MistakesIf every mistake I ever made
was a scar on my body
there would be no pure skin.
Every inch would host a jagged line
where my so called 'selfish pride'
managed to get the better of me.
Idiot mistakes of my youth,
and moronic declarations
of what I thought was insignificant.
Mistakes, errors of judgment,
a complete lapse in sense,
that litter my skin with memories of pain.
For a moment
I thought I was important
not someone to be overlooked.
My selfish pride betwixt me
for everything was little
compared to the pride I raised.
A fall to Earth
waking on concrete
no one besides me.
My mistakes are scars
littering my skin
tainting once pure flesh.
Blunders of thoughts,
guilt as endless as the sky,
never ending weight of it.
are meant to be just that
Though they haunt my thoughts everyday
I can't help but hope that one day
they will be scars instead of thoughts
so everyone else will know
they thoughts that haunt me everyday.
Her CatalystAs she walks through the maelstrom, the words trace upon the tips of her fingers and press into the stone. Every brick, every crack in the concrete, every crossed and angular stroke in reds and blacks and oranges. The drips of the gasoline pool around the base of her boots, slosh as she steps over the burst pipes and the rubble.
So much rubble. So little outcry. The silence of the city grates on her eardrums and the mantras she'd been forced to memorize. The Seers demanded they observe thirteen years of recitation before they attempt to weave their first World together.
But who other than the Seers can claim the incantations that knot the skeins they twist and pull on like reins hold fast? When have any of the Sisters recorded the visions they traced upon space-time and recited them, left them open for critique and discussion and debate?
Which is why she walks through the chalky soot of the smashed city around her. This all
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