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Loneliness is the shy mans choice,
The writers lot; the hidden voice,
The none conformist in a land,
That does not another, understand.
It is inner thought that self denies,
Yet from the outer flees and fly's,
A fear; an ever shrouding fear,
A cringing from all that is near.
A player fearful of the game,
Who is yet the expert just the same.
The night that never turns to day,
A voice that has so much to say,
Yet whispers in the frigid shade,
Where bolder sounds are never made.
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