In the fog of human sentiment, where shadows lose their form,
I see them drifting, those with weak hearts, cloaked in borrowed sorrow,
Their essence, a barely heard whisper, lost in the cacophony of others' cries,
They wander through life, a nameless mist, feeling for everyone but themselves.
Their hearts, a sponge for every tear, every sigh,
And yet, in...
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