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Rusty Broadspear

A vast open dry plane,

Always to be followed,

With invisible obstacles,

Giving a break in life,

Probably making it worth living.

Humiliation occurs occasionally,

As does snow in Summer,

Hurting, somewhere inside,

Like a cancer growing through the body,

Accompanied by kindness mostly,

Or is it pity?

Like a freak animal is an exception,

I am, also.

At least, a blurred feeling tells me so.

Fixed eyes stare at me,

And study me inwardly, prodding and poking,

Playing with a faulty life.

Outwardly I like them,

Inwardly I pity them,

Because they are intelligent and realise.

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