To You, Doomed to Die a Philosopher

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by Eugenio Mazzone on Unsplash

To you, doomed to die a philosopher,
Cursed to speak without expression
In mute representation of birds,

Fated to fall in the hall between two closed doors
With your hands in your pockets
And your eyes on the floor,

Doomed to die a philosopher, and nothing
less.

To you, my friend of so many desperate searches,
I can do no more than offer you a song,
Just as you, for all your wisdom,
Can offer only questions,
So too can I only complicate your journey
With my consolations.

It’s from love that this need to hinder springs,
So judge me not my foolish candor,
Judge instead the fact that I sing.

For you, who labors after such desperate fruits
There can be no rest,

For you born into the war of no and yes,
Born disgusted by the Illusion,
Yet also distrustful of the Truth,
Too smart for your own good,
But too stubborn to lose.

What preposterous nobility,
What monstrous audacity,
To have such courage in times like these,
When we all know damn well
That dying is the only charity we can afford to give.

To you, doomed to tend birdcages full of mad horses,
To stand witness in the time of dust’s defeat,
Prostituting divine ideas,
Head full of Novocain colored suns in the summer somnolence of waking,

You who knows the fragrance of night’s delicate elbow,
And the curves of the sensual enigma,
To you, doomed to die in such a ridiculous mess,

I can off only these condolences, and nothing
more.

Written by

I’m not in the Matrix. I AM the Matrix.

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