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Self-absorbed Sun
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Poems My fire burns like the sun,
Brightest in solitude.
Crowded by the others,
I become but a candle
A lump of tallow proffered,
In a procession of idols,
To my horror, but contortions.
Rearrangements of an inner self
Their voices nauseate,
These sickly puppets,
Resounding in my skull,
and I hear clear,
The hollow of my words.
