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marooned
I have marooned myself, waiting, reaching for that still, small voice I once knew. Marooned in a landscape of endurance and constant wondering. How I wish for just one breath to come and stir, please, come and stir so that I might look beyond. The trail behind me is bloody, footprints and the dragging of my sword in the sand. It’s too heavy to lift—to even sheathe—so I cling to it. For who am I without my sword?