I have a tattered soul;
the paint is flaky
and worn with weary age.
The timbers dry, with weathered battle
and the grinding wind,
dirtied in neglect.
I have a tattered soul;
the fresh enthusiasm of youth
shabby with encounters
and the tortuous drip of years.
I have a tattered soul,
but I have a soul,
tarrying,
with regeneration
at its heart.
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