I am twisted. I am bent.
My bones were blown of flawed glass.
The boy in the ice-cream shop
Says, “Daddy, that man is short!”
“So what?” his father hisses.
“You’re short, too. I’m short.”
So he is, but not like me.
To a child, I am wonder,
Living crooked little man
From a tale in the real world.
But why am I so?
No, no, not because I fell,
However often I fell.
I am that which should not fall,
One who never fell at all
Without sudden, lasting change.
For I am full of stumbling,
And my pain is before me
Always.
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