Me, Myself, and I
Me, one day went to a grave that beheld an awful sight!
For myself was buried within its rubble,
With glaringly sick delight.
Off to the side, leaning against a tree,
I watched as myself began to scream.
“What is this, pitiful pleasure?”
I said to me.
“Is your joy, your pain?
Are your needs his pleads?”
Thinking about myself,
I quickly disappeared.
Now it was me that was left standing by the tree.
Read this poem and more in Through Psychic Eyes by Tristan Rimbaud available in paperback and digital editions.
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