In weak, quavering voice,
Do not quite understand their existence,
Don't know they have a choice,
As do the eardrums they manipulate,
To be there completely,
If ev'rbody simply lived this way,
All the world would be filled with poetry,
But more is the case we speak for ourselves,
Then that is all we hear,
A habit not born of solipsism,
But debil'tating fear,
Of what we know,
That there's no difference,
Between what any of us are saying,
We're trying to describe the same presence.
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