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The Storm:
Clouds form overhead.
Lightning lights up the night sky.
Thunder roars loudly.
Brightly burning star
of orange gold light that’s like
fire in the sky.
White rose, seemingly
pure, your sharp thorns prick me and
turn you petals red.
The world is swallowed
by a fierce burning fire,
born from a small flame.
Waters grow cold as
waves crash violently, hitting
me like a sharp blade.
The trees hide the sky,
while vines grow from the earth and
keep the traveler lost
The dark death lurks like
a shadow. sucking the life
away from our souls
Blood lies on your hands
You heal the wounds of others,
but not your own pain
Whistling through the air
The wind rustles the red leaves,
causing them to fall.