Some poem…

On a road where a chilly wind blows,
All but devoid of souls,
one treks its edges,

In such a cold world,
With little warmth from others,
where the path lays bare,
unsteady ,each step taken is painfully light.
Annoyed at his progression,
sometimes trapped with a precession,
But even through regression,
His purpose although vague, He is is resolute.
Buffeted by thorny winds,
surrounded by darkness,
Without direction,
the fire his eyes have yet to smother.
His appearance is ragged,
Unsightly,
His life ticks,
But so does his feet.
Each step is heavy,
his body thin,
But he is the windbreaker to the vultures’ wings.
His actions are unbecoming the world,
His looks crass,
In failure it is destiny,
In success it is luck…
But to his being,
those are trifling matters,
as it is only the beginning,
For he is the pioneer

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