Immortal, wizen soul, forgotten on its own,
Its gleanings the few scraps passion leaves on the bone,
As if guilty of high crime, expected to atone,
With Justice forfended, the dim future unknown...
It tickles the fancy's one-sided point of view
Mystery and riddle to espouse, like we knew
What we speak is our own, to reveal for the few...
Neo-Gnostic's paisley drawers, unzipping to ensue.
The function of wisdom intimates one must choose
To probe and to prod, unless intellect recuse
Its ministry of life to the mind last in use,
Whose penchant is ever its own wit to amuse!

--H. Arlequin 



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