He learned he was never here,
to reproduce, it wasn't his task,
as this poet so tragically wrote:
"they weren't blessed with children,
knowing they were blessed without"
He wrote "and here our path departs"
and he replied "how many times and
to how many have you spoken such",
These words he wrote, but it was the voice
of the Prophet he heard in questioning him
As blackness dripped out of his ears
like thoughts running through a mind
leaving no trace or hint of what spoil
For he had learned to live
next to the lives of others
But him was bought a keyless entry
yet still he had to tread society's mill
as barren and deserted as his heart
A stranger amongst friends and neighbours
for in his mind - his heart did live elsewhere
©
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