Whose independence is this?
I wonder silently, but my mind
Wants to scream aloud,
Replete with emotion and despondence.
But somehow, and in some queer way,
Every time I get used to finding my voice stifled,
My armor but a rusty remnant of its hoary past,
And my pen, once mightier than my sword, now finds solace
In somnolent dust.
Such IS life, ain't it?
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