A thousand weary souls pass me by any day: one's walking down the hardware aisle in shape of a man, but dressed in dervish of grief. Buzz soft hair, far-off look, one lace ready to unravel, he slouches on by, a walking moan. He is see-through, yet thick with thoughts. What is the weight and worth of one weary soul passing by in hardware on an ordinary day?
It’s April 16. Here’s my poem for today. XO
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