the indifferent man

 

The man who inhales sawdust

When he means to capture the night air

And does not rush from scarecrows

Residing far from dotting or abhorring

Has little to live for.

As a passer-by, flawed and objected

To my brethren, mistaken

Dunce! (them and I, but to them we are menial, so referred to as singular)

Too naive for piety

Too stubborn to reform.

When the absurd jesters light the roads

Beware- this is not the underworld but the one above

And you would expect your path to be lined of a dozen doves

Or burning thorns

Here, you are mistaken again

Under the deceit of sanctitude

The autumn shade of philosophy

The indifferent man cannot attach himself

Therefore supremely repels against agony

At least much more than I.