Of Asters and Obstinacy

There is in long solitude
A kind of sheer obstinacy
Often mistaken for purpose.

It falls in gauzy folds over
The lives of itinerant poets,
Of hermits, of holy men

And other sociopaths—
It veils whether they kneel
In seclusion only to gain

The selection of bruises
We study upon their knees.
And so we are left earnestly

To compare how slowly purple
Blossoms yellow and fade away.

About John MacKenzie

I'll mumble for ya. Poetry, plus most things quantifiable: science, neuroscience, memory, epistemology, baseball. And so on.
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