I became an observer a type of man within the man not in the act rather somewhere between the meaning and the purpose, I see him from abroad I am always in another land, he often follows a plan making haste and waste of the hours
I don’t talk to him he’s too busy feeling down or doing the dishes, I let him run the government of duty I see his fortress of pain from my tiny exile
I have visions, seeing him old brittle like flakes of rust, confounded not sure of what’s to come; I pretend to be dreaming and nothing more
that man is my only friend
like a good old book I peruse in my wayfaring days
like a star in the night sky that’s been dead for years
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