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A Roar of Many Waters

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In the remote tendrils of the mind,
where past affections linger;
lies the dormancy of solitude,
an unfed beast, asking penances.

It is the white dress of the lily,
who keeps her there, at bay;
the name of One, The Triune,
that tests the faculties.

If I hold fast,
here,
at the peak,
where the sky
touches raised land;
and the thunder
is felt
in the bones,

Here,
where ice becomes the heart,
and the cold grow fangs;
my moniker bears fruit.

If I am thunder, what are you,
but blade; severing the lives,

And The Mover of the Storm.
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