​I often feel
superfluous
when I am
on my own.
As if the
vessel,
unnecessary,
in which
my soul
makes its home.
Like the more
real
is the more
abstract.
The mind,
the soul,
things I can’t
put my finger on,
in fact.
This physicality,
morphing,
in a constant decline,
constantly losing
an unwinnable
race with time.
I shrug off
the sensation
of that which is
without,
casting my mind
inward,
for of that journey,
I have no doubt.

M. Zane McClellan

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