It's not tough, not being who I was
Nor tough it is to wear a mask
Of stoic countenance, because
I can. I can as much as ask
You, leave me for what I've become,
And tread alone to promised lands
We once believed existed, home
To quaint emotions. But these sands
Of time are cold, is cold this gust
Of wind that peels away all day,
All night, what's left of my unjust
Visage, no more untrue they say,
Than flaky, white, October frost.
For me, I know I've loved and lost.
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