Shoulders Antique

October 2, 2009
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The weight of the world, overwhelming shoulders antique, spin slowly in circles, constantly superior, to the small and weak.

Young hands pressed against the Earth, its’ crust cold and thin, feels easily breakable, but too stable to smash right in.

Beneath the surface, lies the unexplored, where man has yet to dig, deeper into another storm.

The Earth is constantly fighting, in a battle persistent and worn, ’cause the war never stops, ’till a victory is sworn.

To partake in such a battle, is a promise to deepen wounds, of those whom already suffered, the feeling of cuts and doom.

Feels as if there’s no way out, there’s no patience to be spared, but once strings become mended, we’ll all get out of here.

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