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Poem born of pondering,

listless, aimless wondering,

something not quite so tall,

wondering about the fall,

every empire is born to rise,

and every person dies,

then as one we breathe,

the religion believes,

the poem made of questions,

brilliant people making suggestions,

never noticing what we own,

until we realize what's on loan,

like hearts and a home,

and the feilds you roam,

isn't it irony,

walking tall being so tiny, 

when nothing else rhymes,

what's left than to ponder the times.