The Exiled

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A balanced dew drop on a
Turnip or a nipple. My life in exile
Is empty and dry. In every turn I take
I re-turn pondering why my soul
Cries out like a breaking sky.

Watching exiles sigh exhaling deep,
As they walk the sides of this transit
For a moment they keep. The stranger smiles
In a bid to be a friend, in a moment soon lost
Where he’d care to pretend.

You lose it in the air where your
Predetermined part slips through
Your fingers; and with a swift, privy fart
The stench unbearable of your not belongingness
Lingers, drawing subtle cold patterns abreast your heart.

You hold the gun, you just shove it
Up any desired hole and blow her
Crudeness to pieces, on an amnesia pill.
Those who abuse power, in all history available,
When blown up at short survive to thrill.



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