I brush a spider’s thread from my face
As before, so many times, as if that dead spider was not I
Dying so many times, through time, not caring.
How many stars do we cast into the sky
That, still hot, fall back down upon us
So many as to not stoop to gather
Nor are we conscious that we live, casting into the sky,
Those stars that make up our world
And between the columns blows a wind.
That we name not disappointment, but solitude.
Douglas Pate
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