Clique

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The man is not dead, but he is not alive.
His mind is filled with thoughts of every negative time.

He stares at his reflection, the boy sitting on the ground.
The crowd gathers around him; he does not make a sound.

They begin to taunt and tease him, the hatred in their eyes.
The boy begins to weep; his tears fall from the skies.

They continue heartless laughter about his hair and of his clothes.
The man stares at the boy, imagining what he knows.

The boy looks all but twelve, his body frail, and weak.
His words are that of angel’s tongue, but through his lips, he does not speak.

He is based around a peaceful mind, avoiding those who hate.
But there are times when packs of wolves will come to rob and take.

The crowd moves on with bored expressions, and only the boy can know,
One day they all will feel this sadness; they will reap what they have sown.

The man begins to weep as well as the boy is torn apart.
The boy one day becomes the man, and he will turn from light to dark.





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