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

 

 

 

nihilistic poetry