The Epitome of Man

I lie awake, nights spent with one arm
pressed beneath my body,
the other resting atop my chest
like some fine, living sculpture:
The Epitome of Man
They would call it that,
they may be bold enough to call it art.
The problem is that just the sight
doesn’t do justice to the tedium,
and the looping thoughts,
(the ones that you know the end of,
you see them far off in the distance when the thought begins;
however, the thought simply does not abide to tell you
the ending of itself, it it it finds one small phrase
one small phrase
one small phrase
one small phrase
one small phrase
one small phrase
one
one
one
one
one
one
one
one small phrase and loops it until you’ve forgotten
where it is that you began.)
The looping thoughts seem to flow in a slow and
sickly soft way through your very skin.

“The Epitome of Man” they would call it.
right leg crossed over the left,
right arm pressed beneath the weight of his own body,
left hand softly holding the sheets to his soul.
Eyes closed gently to the world,
he seems to dream.

Too bad he doesn’t.

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