Lonesome souls are lonesome
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Turning pages, or painting books,
As if nothing else matters.
Sipping café as if it is lazed with gold
Intravenously connected to the
Grey matter above.
Intellectuals pondering the world’s worth,
The world’s worst and wants
As if they could ever affect me.
Wise people looking through each other
Peering over Tolstoy, Wordsworth and Heaney,
As if knowing who they are.
They don’t even know where to look.
Smelling salts of understanding sprinkled
Over all this wealth of knowledge,
Shrivelling us up like slugs.
For all these wants and desires
That torture the gifted
Transpire to be nothing but consciousness.
The person in the corner
The lonesome soul battered by his own
Trampling through time
To be lonesome