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Entrapped in a citadel of blues, keenly awaiting long-lost muse.
Despair became her middle name, when lover perished in war games.

Old memories gushed in quick, snuffing light from hope’s candlewick.
She banished her tears and said “no more”, and tossed that sad chapter out of the door.

Solitude became a bosom friend,
Stronger than any fallen man.

She wore her jeweled crown once more,
And sang the song of Sycamore.

“I am happy, I am free,
And this is my godforsaken destiny.”

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