Shuffle, groan speaks.
Misplaced logic runs;
restless, tired feet.
Herded to the line,
marker lies in wait.
Grapple long for,
other chosen fate.
Unique, no home;
reason for stay.
Follow for reward,
hand given,
by slay.
Herd is the lead,
master of device.
Trapped by flock,
routine,
takes its slice.
©Brett Kristian 2018
Oh man… yes. This is great.
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Very kind Tara thank you 😊
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It reads like: the apathy of the routine.
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Thoroughly enjoyed reading this, thank you for this piece. 🙂
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Thank you 😊
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Well written. Anand Bose from Kerala
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Thank you Anand 😊
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