thThe grass is firm
Pressed down by feet
Too numerous to count
Shuffling in their gait
As they march
Through shallow pain
And deep despair
On their way to me
A sycophantic journey
Across hill and vale
Marching for change
Strange validation
In an oddly timed world
Fractured and spent
Reaching out worn hands
Slick with sweat
Conscious of dreams
Harsh like reality
Wrapping them tightly
As their feet hit dirt
Dry season wasting away
Welcoming the rain
That never arrives
To help them on their way.


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