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One soul ripe
From the given path
that safety had need to follow
to where the grass appeared greener.
One seemingly harmless
nibble at a time
I wandered, blinded.
My straying took me
to where provision
no longer sustained
nor was easily provided.
Each bite was harder and harder
to come by.
One
soul ripe
for the losing.
I angered at the situation
angered at my choices;
my rantings overfilled me.
But when words alone
remained to sustain,
no matter how bitter they become
they must be eaten.
My store eventually ran dry and
thankfully silence
prevailed.
One soul ripe
for the picking.
Danger, ever on the prowl,
had me in focus,
but ninety-nine left behind
the Sheppard rose
against the impending threat
and with gentle entreatings
combed the waysides.
From the lost and the helpless
He claimed
one soul ripe
for the finding.
by Zoe D.
Copyright ©2005
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