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The lunar orb risses, a pale golden globe,
As I step outside in my evening robe.
I breathe deeply the crisp winter air,
Smiling slightly as it tousles my hair.

I reflect on wht few moments remain,
As I wonder if I will stay sane.
The end of an age rushes upon us,
No chance to escape its deadly onus.

Judgement approaches for all men,
And there is no way to hide our great sin.
Man was appointed guardian of this land;
Yet it groans and suffers under his ravaging hand.

I sigh as I relax on my porch swing,
Pondering a great many things.
So many twists and turns in this road of life,
So many edges on fate's jagged knife.


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Guardian of the Land?