what we are is illusion
and all around a construct
of a dream or of a hell, dependent only on whichever end of the microscope
you’re looking through, been granted
access to. capitalists have
no power and yet hold all. full of false delusions, no insights, no light, no infinite—no witchcraft coursing through their hearts.
if indeed—they have a heart,
if indeed—it is possible for the hollow man
to have a soul, in which a heart resides and grows to bloom.
a crumbling pile of dirt
the clay —which is too natural the source of
life—for any hollow man. what is the earth when it dies ?
the plant that is deprived of light and life,
restricted in its growth, starved of nourishment and of the sun
and yet unlike the hollow man—it feels.
the earth brings forth and nurtures life, supports.
even the dead moon has a purpose,
comforts us in its light, shining a way out
through the darkness.