THE SLEEPING PROSTITUTE OF TIME

Within the tapestry of life
goes the Mind:
the rest of flesh and bone
remain cat-like;
a sleeping prostitute
of time.

And within heaven all of the
interesting people are missing,
or so says Nietzsche.

But within hell most everyone
says the intersection of Canal
& Mott Streets in Manhattan are
a killer.

And a chorus of drunks fooled
by numbness and unencumbered

by care drown out the naked lunch
of fear and rejection.

That’s the mind singing, you
know.

So few sensuous souls and
so many meaty mannequins!

:: 04-07-2018 ::

About EPRobles

Writer, Artist. I like to paint abstract acrylic images onto canvas. I love to read everything, and I especially enjoy science, philosophy, and the arts. I'm new to the blog experience and I very much enjoy it! I hope to learn as much about all the features that WordPress offers and thank you -- my visitor -- for taking time to read my words. Peace and love... View all posts by EPRobles

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