This was originally written on 09/29/2005
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The wheel keeps turning on and on
Cranked by two skinny legs;
Like the arms of an antique clock
Wound by the hands of Fate.
The wheel keeps turning on and on
Through narrow meandering lanes;
Revealing myriad creatures around
Each with a tale to tell.
The wheel keeps turning on and on
As it passes a sooty face
That looks up from his blacksmith's hearth
Like a soul purging in hell;
The splinters fly everywhere
Like angry fire-flies
The anvil stays stoic to pain
As the angry hammer strikes.
The wheel keeps turning on and on
Crossing a baroque palace gate,
Where noblemen and women conflate,
Where vanity surrounds the place;
Their smiles hide a million vice
Enshrouding putrid thoughts
Yet, they are society's noble face
They are the respected lot.
The wheel is tired , its path is tough
The road it travels , is abrasive and rough;
The cog squeals , and the spokes creak,
But the skinny legs pay no heed.
Lean, lanky, emaciated yet stolid,
With a gaunt yet poker face;
His skinny legs peddle on and on
By will, and not by brawn.
The sun sets to accept defeat
To this spartan soul
And the night arrives in her capote
Only to a dawn unfold
Life is a wheel to this noble soul
And peddle he must to live
His sorrows weigh heavy on the divine scale
But peddle he must to live .
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