The War

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The muddy middle not fought for
But against; they don’t desire the Pit,
The holding cell sitting open for the loser
The weak one, no longer lasting
In the unceasing struggle suppressed,
The rope relinquished,
Laying untouched for but a brief moment
Before it is taken up for testing.

The pulling persists, and the conflict continues.
Confused and worried his wavering mind wanders,
Between two extremes he sees no solution,
So he sits in the middle himself.
He slides back and forth, forward and back,
But nevertheless never being released
From the strain and suffering,
That hellish Pit of pain.





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