skin painted on
by a tyrant
and the heart of
a weeping willow
weren't we all meant to be
born by another set of strangers?
my own father's hands
rusty and scarce of
a woman's.
a working man's blues
handed to a son growing too soon
weren't we all meant to be
born by another set of strangers?
oh the concision of
a backwards step
how awful it is to watch
how unaware the walker is
weren't we all meant to be
born by another set of strangers?
of it I'm sure
i have no allure
not character
not a kind voice
still we are more than
just characters
singing along in a given voice
still we are further from reaping
the benefits
than we are from paralysis
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