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Lone wolfAll others fear me say i am the dark symbol,
terror in my strength and movements nimble.
Fear my dark eyes passion, hunger burning,
and the blood lust of my soul always yearning.
They cower before me think i am nights fury,
and they can not see i'm too of gods glory.
They run, and i am seen as the hated enemy,
not caring if i'm alone draped in nights misery.
Lonely moonshadows rise and fall upon a tranquill night,
as the stars and sky clash in distant fury,
lonely moon shines annoncing silver glory,
and life is cast against the peaceful light.
indifferent to the shadows sacred plight,
the silent sphere turned crimzon enemy,
sings solace with a race in misery,
weeping in a war not theirs to fight.
time offers no comfort for bitter tears,
the silver beams fail to quell the hate,
delicate souls fall to the unknown,
driven by an anger that awakens fears,
the peaceful life will have to wait,
untill the lonely moon is truely alone.
Bo.When Lindsay was born, Bo was there. Standing beside her mother, he was the first thing she ever saw. But he was not her father; her father stood on the other side.
Bo was there until the very moment she died.
The sun shone bright through the windows of her pink-laden room. She loved pink. And black.
“Because Bo is black,” she’d told her parents.
Her imaginary friend, they soon concluded.
“Bo is all black,” she described one night as her father tucked her in, “His skin and his hair and everything. He doesn’t talk a lot.”
Her father frowned.
“He sounds scary.”
“He’s not,” she insisted.
Bo sat on the bed and said nothing.
Her father kissed her good night and turned out the light.
“Why can’t Dad see you?” she asked.
“Are you real?”
“Are you real?” he replied.
“How do you know?”
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