Less of the old

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If there were no storms
There would be no calm
And for strength to be seen
Like resilience to an outburst of attacks
Buffeting left and right
The very depths of one’s soul
The taste of defeat
One is only strong when
One knows how it feels to be
Shattered pieces of glass
Broken
But yet breathing
Bruised
Wounded
But still fighting
And when it seems like death
Will be the hands down victor
The art of winning
Is the death of the self
believing
Cleaving to achieve
It’s own greatness
The “I” must be slain
To breath new dreams
Dreams worthy to believe
Greatness
When there is “less of me”
Less of the old man breathing
Less of the old heart beating.

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2 thoughts on “Less of the old

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