Who is one, to judge someone,
Or mimic what they do?
How can one know what someone,
Is like not in their shoes?
To walk a mile for someone else,
Or see through eyes like them,
Could it be they're seeing through,
Rose glasses that are dim?
If one sees flaws in others,
They've over looked themselves.
To bad their human instincts,
Were passed to someone else.
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This poem is dedicated to ladies I called grandma.
Memorial poem for my brother who was a farmer struck down with cancer at an early age of forty five.
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