Says a hermit in his cavern

The lone philosopher
whispers to himself
(for such is his habit
of many long years):
we enter into bodies
and keep them sane enough,
then our fortunate senile
abscond in paranoia—
in lusts which sport us—
in madnesses of birth
we count without cease—
and barb the flesh
we stole from earth—

he (confuses himself
and every sophist) walks
stooped to his stalagmite
which ponders him back—

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~ by Jeremy on June 6, 2013.

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