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Roots

26 Jul
While I was sitting on the porch, reading
under a canopy of maple trees, looking out
at the golf course next door-- I realized
how thankful I am and should be. 

The neighbor with a protruding pot belly 
always comes out and sits by the fence 
with a Labatt Blue in hand.
He is like clockwork, drinking his morning
away until, by evening, he's boisterously
drunk. 

Humans without 
a consciousness of their spiritual roots 
are like brutes awaiting
the razor of reality 
to cut their existence short.



 
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Posted by on July 26, 2021 in Poetry

 

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