Upon his brow, the lines of worry trace,
Each furrow speaks of burdens borne in strife,
In shadows deep, he wears a weary face,
A silent witness to the trials of life.
The morning sun breaks forth, yet he stands still,
With dreams once bright now dulled by pain and doubt,
He battles storms that test his iron will,
As hopes once whispered fade to muted shout.
In crowded rooms, he feels a lonesome chill,
While laughter rings, his heart remains concealed,
A fragile heart that longs for solace still,
Yet fears the wounds that time has never healed.
Though sorrow’s grip may tether him in chains,
His spirit fights, for still, there’s hope in pains.

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