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The droves:

Forward they plod,

Driven forth by their shadows.

Cries of anguish fill their lungs

As the weight of the yoke

Under which they toil

Bears down upon their shoulders.

A yoke of invention and reinvention.

An apparition masquerading as revealed truth.

The yoke of good news.

Under the strain they groan.

Under the gaze of their

Blind watchmaker

They clamber forth

—the droves—

Trudging through a world viewed in

Monochrome,

Eyes cast only up or down.