Sloppy, moppy, blonde hair,
Hides underneath it, rage.
The fury of a lion wrapped up
In a quaint, little package.
Neck muscles constrict
With such suddenness
One would swear he was simply
A puppet.
The boy, he will swear he is.
A puppet of capitalism, and ignorance, and shamefully cold hearts.
He fades, just slightly, into the forest-colored chair that envelopes him.
Now he sits quietly, sipping.
Just sipping on tea, tea like ambrosia.
The storm within him quelled.
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