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There are so many types That I have seen – Would you call me tired? But then, it does make me tired.... They think they are safe And that no one is watching. So the quiet ones turn boisterous; The boisterous burst into tears, The angry smile indulgently, And the kind metamorphosise Into vicious animals. I see quirks in unobjectionable characters, And in the shady types A quiet respectability. But then, the variety – The hundreds and thousands And more, of strange faces, Make me feel lost at times. You might say I’m a quiet observer Of my fellow people. But everyday I see a face More terrible than anyone else’s Disillusion and fear Revulsion and weariness Jostle each other, and hollow eyes Scare me, until I realise I am looking into a mirror.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2005

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