Utter no words, inspired by nothing.
The earth spins. Sit perfectly still,
Not making a sound, only staring at the earth.
Analyze cracks in the sidewalk,
Subtle marks children have made in the dirt,
Drawing pictures later to be erased by passersby.
Do not admire their innocent nature,
Their dirty, grubby little hands.
Do not wish to touch, play with a child.
In the past. Friendly, neighborly,
Go from door to door, just to say hello.
Those days came and went, along with everything else.
Read great books, indulge,
Let the music reach your soul. Those days have gone.
Back to reality. Stare into an empty television.
Look around at an empty room full of things,
See the past life surrounding empty air ---
Cracked spines of books long left untouched,
Dusty keys of a piano that used to be in tune...
Touch them now. See fingertips turn black.
Lack desire to touch again.
No desire moves, no intention stirs consciousness,
No purpose wishes to change.
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