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At The Doorstep
The day is young, and the air is cold.
The wind tortures those who have little.
Their spirits are down, and their bodies are old.
Neither dead nor alive, but in the middle.
The zombies creep around as rats and flies.
Their lives are dead just like a horrible disease.
They torture themselves with fake hope and lives,
While hunger kills them like the flowing a seas.
The cars go past with out simple car or love.
This inane battle for ants in deadly water.
They wonder the thoughts of the Almighty above!
All purpose feels like a pig in the ...