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Poetic justice

A soft word spoken in fierce anger is much better than a life of regrets for what was said, in such high emotion.

The dead doesn’t return to make amends or appease a seething remark you made, that is forever burned into your soul, you live in a state of paradoxes that feels like fire and ice motion.

The peaceful, serenity to know that the tongue amongst my mouth has been put in a  bridle position. That my lips refuse the cup bearer approved, brimming with bitterness, steeped in hatred, potion.

It is a choice my friends, what you decide to let exit out of the gateway of heaven or hell that exists in your Mandible.

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