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Day 7

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Day 7

The mighty tamers prance around on their mighty steeds like conquering heroes.

What have they conquered? What have they done? If their aim is to build their own self-worth, their own pockets, and display it for all to see Then that aim they have accomplished.

What of the beggers on the street. What of the minions at the gates? They prance around on their steeds like the product they're contributing is their very nobility and clout, and we should be grateful for it. As if their greatness was needed. Like a stiff odor that trapped in my nostrils. They prance around on their mighty steeds announce their presence as a gift to the world.

They prance around on the more horrific of beasts, nightmares and firesteeds alike. They prance around like warriors and kings. They dress themselves up as we hadn't noticed them already. They cover themselves up, ashamed of what we might see without. They hide behind masks, upon layers, upon masks. Ashamed of what they have become.

THEY are the spit of the earth they walk on. They are the worthlessness, creeping and leeching the city. They are the potential that is never used. They are the stink and the stench that fills the air. They are the dirt and the snot that drags and drudges and grabs at our ankles.

They prance around and await a nod of approval with their looks of their eyes. With a nod and a smile, they wait for acknowledgement. With nothing but their smirks do they adore.

And the peasants thank them for it. They thank them because they wish they were them. They thank them and forget why they began thanking them in the first place. They thank them and can't stop. They smile and the tamer smile back. They empty their pockets in hopes to be noticed.

"G'day m'lord." They say.

They prance around, while the world turns on its belly and is sickened of the stench.

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