Inward

He’s given too much to rumination.
A little too quick to trust concentration;
however misplaced, dull and graceless,
a soul in stasis as he passively paces.
Shapeless he coils
Into an infinite past.
A shame, if this time
were to be his last.
He may never come back.
He may run off the tracks.
He just might slip right through the cracks.
That quiet one,
who never laughs,
with eyes like shattered glass.

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