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The Broken Spear
Stephanie, Age 12, Toronto, ON

I saw it was a broken spear
So old, it was ready to tear
Perhaps, its story
Was one full of glory
But the item itself could not last.

It reminded me of a withering weed
I once had the chance to meet
So old and sad,
It looked just a tad
Like a storm-driven mast.

Or more, it made me think
Of a faded pink
On a dress
Now a mess
Glamour once unsurpassed.

It also brought back
All those days I wore black
Deaths
And panicky breaths
Those memories I thought were passed.

So really, that poor broken spear
Never should’ve appeared.
For it was a key
A terrible key
A key to the past.

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