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My peace belies my lies and faith,
Battling within and without,
I hold my face hidden in the dark,
A mask of self doubt;
Loathing is a solemn task,
A job that never ends, perhaps,
But inside I see the appetite,
Of heart for a tiny lapse,
For pain and pleasure to abate,
To succeed where I fail,
The ends justify nothing I feel it true,
My bones are dust before the gale.
Death knocks silently here,
But comes with silvered wings of mist
I halt upon a word or two,
Whispered, as if by halting, kissed.
© Tom Stanley
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