Love.
He
seems to sleep, preserved from sin,
his
dust congealing, concealing shapes –
the
Greek gift of dissimilitude (still wrapped),
an
untouched Pandora’s box. He sleeps on,
dreamless,
no doubt, just doing his job.
No
sun disturbs his anaesthesia,
a
life lived, a stylite gazed upon.
Visitors
find believing hard, that one
could
live a life of a recluse without
reward.
They look for reasons, find none,
shake
their heads, move on. Doctors too don’t know
what
could cause such alienation
but
fear the patient’s awakening
and
having to explain what could have been.
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