Half the harm we do to ourselves
Lies in taking others too seriously,
In expecting life to throw us a bone
Of meaning without the effort
Needed to fetch one, or even to ask
For a bloody bone to be thrown.
And the stars are empty and stale
As we wonder without and within,
Forgetting the dreams we regret we had
And wishing, only, for something
We dare not devalue by knowing.
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