Times there are
in dreams and days
when I behold
with hollow eyes
a happy horde
hastening  away,
hailing men and aims  
wormwood to me
as they dwindle to dim
on distant horizons,
leaving me alone,
stuck in a Dali landscape,
a tattered map in hand,
my canteen rattling,
my legs tired and trembling,
my heart a leaden lump,
my spirit a limp Dali watch
half sagging off a table.



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