8.

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The wretched wind blew and blustered. Shrieking and rending with invisible claws to tear away the lost souls and persistent memories. Oh, that I would gladly give those things up to the wily winter wind.

But they held tight.

Little clinging things with daggers for fingers stuck in the recesses of my very being; I’ve bled out conscious. Morals flung out with the Northerly and sprinkled into dust over the far fields, I supposed. Those prickly things that kept me company for most of my long years, replaced by sinister ghosts and base reason for too many more of those. Where can I find myself again? Whose tender compassion carries the miseries of others?

For Thy Peace, My SoulWhere stories live. Discover now