imprisoned by my own designs
i am a fool
sucking from the teat
of monotony
listless and fatigued
and bound by comfort
too exhausted to break
the shackles and
set myself free
still enthralled by the
siren song
promising sanctuary
in the pit of ennui

did i ever know another voice?
the simulacrum insists
it was but a dream, that
i was never a butterfly,
only this clay molded
into man and, even then,
was the clay ever a man?
yet, i dream that i flew,
this way and that,
over a field of flowers
full of wonder and joy
though i wake each morn
just another
hollow man
a husk
built of straw
and wicker

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