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Oh My God !
Head held high This self appointed God Walks on his feet of clay Followed by an entourage Of blinded fools Egging him on Reveling in his bloated contempt As he walks on unmindful Of the voice from within Spouting words of wisdom As he treads unfeelingly Over corpses yet undead Every word measured to hurt Posing on a pedestal Cracked at the base Shallow, hollow Like the words he speaks It will rain one day…it will He’ll be walking alone When those fools run for cover His feet…his feet They will have left him too What then, my God, what then?
Swati Chandran
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