The writer living in this fella has been dormant recently, tossing and turning with half dreams of discontent. Until he decides to rise up again, I'm looking through old poems. I thought this one would be a good way to get started with my contributions to the Windsor Estate.
a child on a deserted plateau
conscious of the tearful flood
found all that he could know
is written in his blood
it is written in his bone
every peace and every war
though he is alone
he's with all that came before
Thanks for reading,
Conley
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