An old man sat on a street bench,
holding out a large bottle for the masses.
“Here, drink my water and your troubles will go away!”
People scoffed as they walked by
Some dropped a few coins in his lap.
Brisk, in the shadows of the day, seas of people walked past
Rolling plains of individuals and me at the mast
Mountains abound fast
Basking in the plain shadows of her grey sadness,
the moth flickered longingly, inviting in the light
to dance delicately upon her ugly winged madness
They spoke in twisted tongues,
The cold air pierced their lungs
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