Rants of the Disillusioned

He loves himself.

He pronounces it,

a squalling peacock roosting high

in his own tree.

Could loving anyone more be anything than

blasphemy of his own self-worship?

He directs his words to nobody,

speaking out loud to the air as if it listens–as if

the air would slow to listen to him.

For all of your complaints, self loving man,

and the fruitless pursuit of those

who wouldn’t give you the time of day,

perhaps it would be best

to leave it to yourself.


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