Not-knowing

The wind of not knowing
crashes into me
even through the walls,
and through this damp, expectant stillness.

In a cast-away room
with ugly walls
I hide.

Stripped of my leaves,
I have nothing
but raw truth,
which has little taste.

And yet it possesses me.

It is an eye
cast on my life, and death,
a knowing I can never meet
except for cloudy seconds
in a faceless crowded room.

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