in mid-augusts breadth
the last gasps of doomed stars
like lions lacking breath
he is watching
as history repeats itself;
damns itself
the solipsist; the progeny
who cries under his mother's wing
the exodist
to exist
unfortunately, in shortage of sleep
where asphodels crouch
long cut from life's thicket
free from time's gouge
painless, from the thick of it
cast into tartaros
on the cape of ouranos
to fall from his ipseity
so long was serendipity
his father's testament;
the panegyric on death
his debt, his deficit
of what he is bereft
summer feet cross the border
to touch the winter sleet in its corner
and skin meets skin
the solipsist's gravest sin;
the sophist, where he sits,
sips on the blood of collision
more sure of "self"
than his mothers hands
the solipsist, to exist
in the shade of earth,
who inhibits
a pull, a push
×
leaves his soul above the room
