That were you mine I’d be Alive,
Dancing, singing dungheap that I am,
To where the errant birds arrive
to peck at the sorry holes I damn.

No thought or shame could e’er provide,
What hunger that you left behind,
To haggle, beg, before you Died,
To fill myself with these words I find.

And now, Dead though I wish I was,
I Dream instead, for in waking then I little Die,
For being, is to forbear the yawning Jaws,
Of sweet Darkness where I wish to lie.

The Dark, unending, stares back at Me,
Sweet, Unfathomed! I fall to my knees,
Agape I witness, what I could Be,
That old kynikos, Diogenes.

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