an old poem I dug up. don't think i've posted this one just yet. enjoy
One can wander,
for a thousand years,
all the age and wisdom of the world,
sits upon their sculpted face,
and yet,
deep within their gazing eyes,
lies all the emptiness of their soul.
To wander,
without purpose,
without drive,
without someone to hold to,
is it worth all the secrets,
this wretched world may hold?
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