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Top Of The Hill

He sat down
at the top of the hill
and looked out over
all of the ills
that had plagued him
for the whole of his life.

He watched as the living went by;
each one in their own world,
a world where he didn't belong.
He closed his eyes and dreamt:
imagined he held an old mandolin,
was softly playing a mournful tune,
whilst all about and around him
an orchestra of cellos and violins
performed a symphony of their own.
Nobody heard his lonely song.

He watched and became rapt
by a piece of discarded paper,
floating - twisted and wrapped -
caught in the flow of traffic below,
never controlling its own destiny,
pushed from one lane to another,
barely avoiding fast, strobing wheels.
He knew it was just a matter of time
until it disappeared, to be crushed
under the relentlessly moving line.

He had no purpose, no reason;
in truth, he could find no will.
His lips kissed his near-dry ally,
that had promised so much
yet failed him feebly once again.
Failed to provide the answers
demanded by his delusive brain.
He would return here, he knew,
only when he could take the reins
of his own uncharted outcome.

He walked down
from the top of the hill
looking out over
all of the ills
that would plague him
for the rest of his life.
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4/18/2021 4:18:45 AM # 1.0.0.559