Notwithstanding a shameful reflection
I threw all of my chips on the table
My destiny appeared uncertain.
I choked up my tears of agony
My soul, subservient, resurrection.
Bravely, I coughed up a bit of humility.
I adored the muses to my left.
My subconscious languished needlessly.
Who would be my caretaker
If I could no longer bind my own wounds?
Who would white-wash my soul
If I could no longer listen to my muse?
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