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I lift my feet up to the height
In succession upon this flight
I rarely ponder this improvement
That aids my steady uphill movement
I stop
I look around
I focus in
On that constant sound
Many steps are being trodden
With the process being forgotten
All these people escalating
Faces up, never breaking
Gazes fixed straight ahead
Little care of where they tread
Other things do occupy
Minds so busy
Lives so full
"Who is he?
Who is that fool?
Lacking progress
Unlike the rest
Looking down
Chin to chest
Little worry, little care
Let us leave him, move along
You shouldnt stop
It is quite wrong"
Oh well
I sigh
As I see that thought
In the passer-by
They do not see as I do
I think where I put my shoe
Not that it is important
But rather that I am not
In relation to the surrounds
This feeling I have got
That what means more
Is the sky and floor 
And we who move between
Are those who havent seen
Because the beauty around
Starts from the ground

◄ Prose about Her

Time ►


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