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She shuffles along the same path.
Vacant expression on her prematurely wrinkled face.
Eyes tightened in a mask of mildly assumed pain.
Manually opening and closing the doors between the mutual destinations.
Taking time to check that they are sealed.
The pause before entering. The pause before leaving.
Just to be sure.
Treading frictionally along the same path.
Hour after hour.
Day after day.
And On.
A cup in one hand.
A small bemused cat in the other.
The tea grows cold before journeys end and so a return is planned.
And on.
And on.
Until worlds end.

Filed under: Poetry

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Lazy Peon. Hardware Monkey. Real-ale Bore. Stupid Mick.

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