Without Water

Be unmoved,
cold,

an angel in a graveyard

of a hamlet.

Don’t breathe emotion,

corrosive empathetic nature,

don’t react,

explosive anger, and outrage,

unacceptable.

Only live in the present moment,

stone.

There is no right and wrong,

scales cast aside

from Judgement’s civil torment,

tore Philosphy’s robes

until the fabric gave way.

Enlightenment,

in form of selfishness,

hedonism,

as a lifestyle:

they will not draw 

any lines,

with pens or swords,

immovable hands,

bent arrows.

They seek to absolve guilt

by ignoring it,

but are imperfect

in their practice, 

questioning water for its tides

pulled by a heavy moon.

Mersault knocked on the 

door of unhappiness

four times,

but they seek to find

a way in,

willing others to

take them there.

Woolf killed her angel,

I seek to do the same.

I will love, and hate,

and suffer, 

because it is natural

to me.

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