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In a bungalow without central heating in November
bettalpha

True solitude is not achieved
 1
by not opening your front-door,
 2
but when not even a single fly
 3
flies through your open window.
 4
 
 
I do not know about the solitude
 5
of the trees around my bungalow
 6
and whether they have ever felt
 7
the lack of a bird upon a branch,
 8
 
 
never showing another expression,
 9
like a painting behind my window.
 10
I see whether I can spot a speck
 11
of dust stuck to the white walls.
 12
 
 
In truth there is no fly or bird
 13
on a tree, no speck of dust stuck,
 14
only a leaf trembling in the cold,
 15
in me (despite the electric fire)
 16
 
 
looking at these details as a corpse
 17
hears the maggots shift within him,
 18
unable to say anything or be nothing.
 19

1 Aug 08

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Comments:

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

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