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Quiet

I can't imagine anyone caring
what I think about,
what is last to leave my mind
when I sleep.
I'm just getting old.

No one is older
than the ancient dead.
Think of all they knew,
easily,
without caring to learn.
They knew the truth

of the worlds.
They knew the oneness of it all,
before we living built

our delusions
and forced ourselves

to live in them.
When the living young

are roaring in my brain,
I am thankful

for the quiet inanimate.
A dilapidated building

looms by the road,
no windows or paint,

the ceilings sagging.
The sky helps it

to be beautiful.
There is always
a broader view.

Comments

Bohemian Girl said…
you have a gift with the written word.

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