A March By A Stage
For a while my conscience
has known no joy.
And in the pleasures of pain,
no man is an exception.
Each time upon the sight of their
clan, contrition feels me empty!
Who knows the bud from which
we singly sprout, though we all
sprung from the same tree?
How mawkishly emotional
I march by an unlooking pretender!
From all I have been and seen,
to them, our lives' sloamey,
and they might be right.
Though I have my own state
of mental sadness,
their sighs of plaintive voices
sterns me and bosoms me with pure pain.
Coldly and slowly, amidst
those fellows' survey
I can plead no excuse;
I too I'm part of man's race!
And there is much in life,
but to think for a while, undoutly,
the find no flick of ecstasy.
For my yielding sight,
the overcrowds me with despair
and strikes me like lightening.
Those fellows without hearts,
soo dump without will,
soo pure with dry lips,
strangely, they work me out a deal!
Could it be, or more likely exquisitely,
Ah! how can my life be at
joy, when there is no pleasure in their looks?
How can I laugh, when they find
no cause to even smile?
Ah! how can I, I dare not even.
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