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He moves,

his bones dancing in the heart of spirit,

moves like he simply knew not that he was just so graceful,

a complete symphony powered by his passion of life

and spiced by his unintentional wit which fires his tongue into turmoil.

His every move is a note in the harmony of his being,

a distant melody that I chase in vain.

As the last chords disappear round the bend,

my pounding strides cannot compete,

and he fades into the background,

the twinkling of his laughter a hollow, tormenting ghost,

until the world moves on, not missing his music,

and life thunders on,


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