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The Man Who

Horatio, Why so glum?
The words seem to hum,
But it augurs a despair... foreboding and dumb,
An emotional moribund,

Denial
He became stuck in the ways of the smith,
Oh how would he buck the blues,
However best he tries to duck the truth,
The man strives on with his flute,

Loneliness
The emptiness is a desolate desert,
In which he plies his trade,
The solitude a great partner,
But it threatens to poison when in danger,

Bitterness
Turning and churning the bitter pill,
Reality seems mocking... but still,
The shocking brute of workmen life tills the mill,
The man strives on with his drill,

Sadness
Sorrow fuses the pangs of depression,
With the bitterness of the futility of escaping the flow,
The feelings make strange bedfellows,
But he is trapped in the billowing canvas of his work,

Sanity
Horatio, are you all right?
The words linger a little longer this time,
A sense of conciousness returns, like the scent of thyme,
The man strives on with his poem... trying his best to make it rhyme.

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