November 27, 2011
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There he sits,
Sifting memories in the quiet of the alley.
His heart,blackened from the ashes,
is deserted.
His story is incomplete,
cracked with pain.
Burnt is his soul, blackened by the fumes of rotting flesh.
Burnt, like the wisdom buried in his father's deep eyes.
Burnt, like the embers crumbling within him.

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Scribbler-of-Dreams This work has been published in the Teen Ink monthly print magazine. said...
Apr. 30, 2012 at 11:10 am
Wow. You are an amazing writer. This reminds me of Eliezer Weisel.
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