opaque clarity, the vanity sees
a hull bloodless, grasping
the scene, whether recognizable
the strangers I wrote about
they are me
imparted, forced
the ideas, conventions extracted
they are me
comprehended, so a dimension
of intellectual and secluded reverie exists
a difference, a complex arrogance
it could never be me
never like them

Photo by Kelsey He on Unsplash

His words and not mine. The man, old, not yet old enough
to stroll at his will, but stop, why?
Surrender, just rest a bit,
stranger to the sorrow, the misery,
graves scatter, marrow ripens,
a soul no more,
ashes.

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