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the slave soul

13 April 2010

a hundred thousand thoughts fly
on the wings of the wind
in the deeps of the night
when all is useless and vain
when all is diseased and stained
and the letters, unarranged
like scrabble tiles, scattered
on exquisite marble slabs
and all at once, in the blink of an eye
things get out of hand–
once again, wildly out of hand,
and the disease of slavery
the riotous, radical hatred of freedom
erupts in the soul
proving good old Aristotle
right once again.

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4 Comments leave one →
  1. 13 April 2010 12:02

    “The riotous, radical hatred of freedom.”

    Beautiful, sir.

  2. 13 April 2010 16:21

    Thank you, sir, very much.

  3. 18 April 2010 18:03

    I like. 🙂

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