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The Mists

The light is low
As it was that sleepless morning
But this light is not the Sun
It is my soul.

That gray was the gray of hope
A train rushing toward the station
Toward family, joy, and laughter
This is a fog.

I do not want to hear it
What was once a song to me
Fills me with bitterness
And stilted prayers.

Keep your blessing
Keep your comfort
Do not answer
When you are not asked.

I shed tears for death
For friends departed
And hopes dashed
But not for the truth.

I will do no penance now
Not to please you
To bring myself low
To make you happy.

I am who I was then
Exactly the same
I hope one day your happy lies
Will be lost in the mists.

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