So Long

So much there is beyond the sweep of things
You understand — roses that do not care
That you care for their colors. Evening wrings
From someone else's mind a different air
Than aught you could conceive of even breathing.
You do not know that Lethe has been seething
With memories of god knows who or what.
It is a matter of knowing in your gut
How much the brain has sheltered you from dream
To keep your world perfect as a rhyme
You don't quite like to hear. Some have to scream
For words to mean one breath. Don't ask me why.
If all men do is breathe, eyes merely see
This does not live. You can let it be.

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