QED

poesy

man as machine

He stares into his abyss

pondering the unending stream

of postcards and fiddlesticks.

I see that he begins to sprout

wormwood on his head.

It grows to maturity

and then wilts with every

thought of tragic circumstance.

Others, however,

grow the most brillant

flowers which become

overpowering to the senses.

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