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His Hands Were Meant to hold Pens….

His eyes,
designed to sketch a dream world,
now droop with fatigue.
His frail limbs,
made for running in gay abandon,
tremble under the load of his fate.
His ragged clothes,
make way for the heat to singe,for the frost to spear.

His dreams of an ideal life
has blown away like the wisps of dandelion.
Caught in the time - warp,
he ambles through the path of life
like a traveller lost in the desert,
never to find an oasis again.

The world does not look back at him.
Why would they?
He is just another blade of grass,
trodden over a zillion times,
before blending with the soil.

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