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Canyon, No Echo

Is life to be, but stories,
Is memory but a fickle friend?
The hope and joy, that seemed,
As unlikely as it seemed so real,
Leave naught but a void,
I no longer seek to cross,
A bridge unburnt, for which,
I have no toll,
Of bells, that ring,
With silent appeal, unechoed,
By the chasm of my thoughts.

Will the honesty I seek, within,
Ever allow me to see,
To know,
I did, indeed, give my all?

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