In us there live a multitude
of people, connected only
by their dwelling in
the same mind and flesh,
One of pure and good
intentions, a scoundrel
intentions, a scoundrel
who fails to rise from
the sensual moral muck
the sensual moral muck
they chose to dwell in,
and the indifferent, who
wastes the hours - of
which the sleeping poet
would have made use of
- for things that pass
forgotten into the rayless
depths of time.
02.-06.12.2023
#Poem #Poetry #Poems #Verse
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