In one of your walks lost in your own thoughts,
When you happen to step on a dead rat,
You FEEL the mangled bones the squishy muscles
Beneath the sole of your shoe.
And you look back with disgust and guilt and sadness,
But walk on trying to rub your shoe
Over the gravels and concrete edges
And as the day passes by
You either remember the sadness you felt
In one of your void moments,
Or you forget it until you wear the same shoe
Or walk the same path again.
Such is the case with poetry.


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