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In a bungalow without central heating in November

True solitude is not achieved
by not opening your front-door,
but when not even a single fly
flies through your open window.
I do not know about the solitude
of the trees around my bungalow
and whether they have ever felt
the lack of a bird upon a branch,
never showing another expression,
like a painting behind my window.
I see whether I can spot a speck
of dust stuck to the white walls.
In truth there is no fly or bird
on a tree, no speck of dust stuck,
only a leaf trembling in the cold,
in me (despite the electric fire)
looking at these details as a corpse
hears the maggots shift within him,
unable to say anything or be nothing.

1 Aug 08

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i like your really amazing metaphorically deep philosophical type poem.
 — chuckle_s