The man sat for nine years.
After seven he cut
Off his eyelids to keep
Awake. He disappears
Into the mental rut
So like and unlike sleep.
He becomes, without skin,
Just the robe he’s clothed in,
Empty of good and sin,
Sans end or origin.
At last he left the cave,
Thinking, “Mind is a grave
And nothing I can save.”
He gave the wind a wave.
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