Foot on a stormy road, path unsure
All she sees is bed of petals piled up
like a stack of bricks, lined up
thrones she foresees yet in memory of her serenity, she heads.
A soul of a sword,
fully aware of its chore
Standing in between the warriors
Fails and rises again,
Blades still being the same,
sharp enough to war against..
Years of her memoir, safely kept
double keyed the door,
A promise to not look back, neither beyond.
She continues, with memorandum
Her tomorrow follows.
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