Borne in a quiver,

made of wood and stone.

Loosed by string and strength

in search of a home.

Freedom in flight,

unfettered from the throng.

A purpose predetermined,

fated all along.

Compelled by its master,

whether right or wrong,

to end a life

in a whistling swan song.

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The Artist
The unbearable thing about living is not so much being but being oneself. God put billions of us into the world and gave us all, as a joke, our own life and morals. The universe never planned on me, or you, only some specimens based on the original model. Like a car, each made of the same essential central engineering. The only difference being the lice…
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