This: a death of souls casting away
Talents, the awareness of the poet, as if
There was only this world, and naught else.
What is science devoid of art? Only roads
With no place to travel down them.
This, too; the insulation of a belief, an idea
That nothing else is worth studying,
Not language, nor art, nor passions.
What is science but dead-end roads, and eyes
Believing that seeing is seeing - and no more.
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