Prayer of the Lost

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On nights like this, dreams seem to be much farther than I can bear it. When darkness stays, the stars seem so much smaller than they were yesterday. At this dismal point, it is easier to drop the sword and let the demons run me through with their pointed horns and their killing claws. When hope is faint, echoes of music play from somewhere too distant for me to hear. On nights like this, everything fails. On nights like this, I am lost.

I close my eyes and try to find the core of strength everyone said we have. At no great length, I give up with the Herculean effort to conjure the magic from the broken chords of my soul. I bend and search, but I cannot gather the shattered notes of my song.

On nights like this, come you saints of heaven. Rush to me, angelic armies of the sky. Hold up my arms before they fall leaden to my side. Bring your blazing swords to disperse the darkness.
Cut through the devils that grapple in my mind.

O Saints of Heaven, Armies of the Sky, watch over those who despair and who weep, who breaks and who keens and all those lost as I am.

May we all be found tonight.

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