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He was kind.
Where he would tire and submerge himself in mire
Where he almost rots,
You'd think it's something not to admire,
but apparently not,
he sinks in the marsh
and feeds himself to the land he loves so much,
with a smile on his face, white hair hidden under
blacks hats,
and no one bats an eye,
when he slips
no one sees
and when he sinks further into the earth,
no one sees
the soot eats he,
and when he is gone,
no funeral is held for the wayward son.
(And he was kind.)