Often, he walked barefoot.
He liked to keep his feet dirty.
Dirty hands to go with them,
to write dirty poems with.
Those that reek of prejudice,
of a world he knows not,
of feelings he'd never feel,
of you and me, and that
starry-eyed boy playing
in a pile of dirt, clueless.
Dirty eyes to inspire 'em hands,
to write the worst of what he sees,
to add life to what's long dead -
his soul.
Not the kind that resurrects a corpse,
but just enough life to leave it half-dead.
Dirty feet, dirty hands,
dirty poems, dirty eyes.
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