Worrying takes up cognitive capacity.
He was neither a worldling nor a struggler.
Atropos of nothing, he smiled
At the dappled sunlight on the cherry-strewn
Lawn between the dark cabins of light
And decided to worry no more, to surrender
To chanting the old poems that said
Everything to him, made no sense
To anyone else, waking him in the night:
"Explain what is not.
I am what is not
Dead, and the world
Explodes with metaphors.
Magic negates itself.
The moment it happens
It ceases to be magic,
And the whole world's else."
By these and other foolish forms
Of deflorestation, the days proceeded
To shower him with curled petals. Soft. Soft.
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