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The Fortress
The pages of the calendar lie crumpled on the floor.
Each tear-stained page a testament to her pain.
Three sons, three wars, three funerals
One lifetime of anger and despair.
Now she builds a fortress of solitude.
Each mortar block hardened by her anguish.
A moat, filled by her own tears,
Guards her solitary refuge.
She sits within these walls
A prisoner of her own grief.
No one can scale these walls,
Nor penetrate this hardened shell.
And time, the enemy of the aged,
Continues its’ slow assault as...
The pages of the calendar lie crumpled on the floor.
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All that is necessary for the forces of evil to win the world is for enough good men to do nothing...Edmund Burke
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