in solitude we find

that which brings

a lost dialogue

on the contemplation

of what it means

to be without

the need for admiration

or desire, but to only

feed the things that

never ask to be fed

for what we have

to offer is poison

to them, and when

we try, it brings

forth the inevitable


in the name of

living a life

that in its very nature

is not a life at all

but a death wrapped

in all our ambitions