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May 2022
Trodden puddles; muddy waters of cattles laiden on the
path of a dry river bed. The surrounding being ever present
of one's land loss. It's love (like many hearts) so bare to the
humid air, under these heated moments. Skins have broken
out, in my rash decisions.

Don't butter me up, to spread the falseness of a left hand.
Though it's right isn't always holding onto doing right.

Shall I tend the fieldβ€”once after the herd passes? Let no puddle
be open on where you walk.
Odd Odyssey Poet
Written by
Odd Odyssey Poet  25/M/Zimbabwe
(25/M/Zimbabwe)   
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