I sit by the tavern,
Beside an old, hoary man,
And I tell him all —
That I am broken,
Splintered into a million shards,
Bereft of even the faintest tinge
Of hope and dreams.
He sighs,
Raises his silvery brows,
And fixes his pair
Of steely eyes
Straight at me,
Then softly whispers
A tale so true —
How he carved
And chiseled down
A fine life of his own,
Out of this dark,
Troubled world.
Then I rise,
And leave,
With head held low,
In utter shame.
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