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Driving on the road

we see them every day.

In their hundreds,


We look at them,

they look at us,

And we pass along the way.


"Poor creatures",

we think,

and pity their narrow existence,

Lives determined

by their masters' restrictions,

Regimented, corralled,

branded and ruled,

Bound by invisible chains

though they think

they're free-range,

Poor fools.


It's a blessing, we suppose,

that they don't realise their fate;

And by the time they do,

if they ever do,

It's too late.


Nothing we can do,

of course.

We'll just carry on

and ruminate.


While they slave away,



and accelerate.


◄ Bury - Ghosts Walking

Essence ►


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M.C. Newberry

Fri 23rd Nov 2018 14:27

Ha! Nice one. Neat deceit!!

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