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Rated: E · Poetry · Other · #1711164
Short poem about inner strugle.
To No End

His path is filled with fallen leaves
Of darker brown and red.
He steps on them with graceful care,
His pockets full of lead.
He's dressed in black
But mourns for no one
Apart of his own path
That's leading nowhere at the moment
But gets him back to start.
A vicious circle that entraps
And keeps him there since birth.
Nothing to do but walk around
While digging up the earth.

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