November 7, 2010
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In a wood of foggy green,
Among the whitened peaks,
Wanders a man – lost - who seeks,
Blindly – blindly the top.

Amid a ridge, close to the ground,
Much nearer to the sky,
He walks - his sightless eyes now round,
His clothes tossed to and fro.

On top of a mountain high above the ground,
The man now stands alone,
He stands quite still - atop his cold throne,
A smile now on his face.

But as the fog clears, the man utters out,
A bellow of no sound,
For the mount he was perched on so joyful,
Was nothing but a mound.

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