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The Search

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He doesn’t wish for them to see
him, this sharp-eyed
wanderer, whose movements are
solid turning to liquid turning
to air.

The world bows to his whims.

His mind is
brilliant, a troubled
mass of conflict; it tells of
the problems that must be owned when
existence is Infinite.

It is he who carves
his own way, against those
before him, he who struggles not to

Kill of whom he is jealous, those who shine with
animation and soul, soft putty in his
capable hands.

His burning
eyes are
ocher with these choices
made, though sometimes
he might wonder why
he bothers. Happiness is

forgotten with results. His fulfillment is
empty and wanting. His obsession
is one of needing to
experience the Other,
a beat of fragile
spirit.

And still He lays sleepless.





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arista said...
Dec. 20, 2008 at 8:21 am
The flow of your poem is great. Keep writing:)
 
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