Taylor Ogborn

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The men march on ceaselessly into battle;Rifles strapped,Boots cleaned meticulously,Trained for the unknown war.
A candle is lit in the windowA year after the darkest of daysEvery song played upon the radioTorments the soul in the saddest of ways.
I find myselfIn cafes and wine barsFilling my nose withNot grape and grinds,But melancholy and bitter,Or is it sweet and lively?The moon has become too bright to tell.
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