This mortal earth
aside
the millionaire denies it,
the egotist claims her
and in missing the light,
shadows,
and calculus
of Solaris,
the revelation of suffering
avoids them.
So they only pass,
leaving unloved children
to repeat their wrath
and continue
the cycles of mortals.
O hold up you high
Piraeus’ glass at midday
and know
the wealth of nothingness.
Socrates is there
with wild hair
on the bed made by slaves
still dreaming.
Sappho is dead, just dead.
Her corpse wrapped in
loins.
Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
novamartinpoetry.com 