Ben Stuff

Behold ,
He always stood,
For sometime now at a glance,
His face looked distance,
Buried in a deep unknown thoughts,
No one knew anything behind that look,
But rumour had it,
That he carried that which no man could,
Bestowed upon him was the burden of all and sundry,
But do we cry,
He beats his drum at the disposal of his hands,
He plays the guitar at the tenderness of his fingers,
Beating the dust out of her heart,
She who understands his clenching fists,
And swayed by his tunes,

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