The trees, so hidden well by thickened wood,
While senses hide behind the deep despair,
He, ridiculed by those that can’t but should
And persecuted by those that once did care.

As fingers point and clone the loaded gun;
They choose a victim crying on his knees,
To watch him beg for solitude, in one
And disregard his perennial pleas.

The rights and wrongs of progress bliste...

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