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The Philosopher's Abyss

A Poem

By Arthur HasekuraPublished 6 years ago 1 min read
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Photograph of Friedrich Nietzsche, taken by Gustav Adolf Schultze, 1882.

Through aching, blurred eyes, I stare into the dark,

Regarding the world as one does a wisp of smoke.

My throat tastes of blood; I ache with the emptiness.

And, with blood-shot eyes, the Abyss stares back at me,

Knowing I cannot penetrate its miasma.

I crouch upon the ground, a fetus in the dark.

Tears fall, as incorporeal as ash, as shadows.

Crawling, throbbing madness, hanging like mustard gas.

My lungs burst with flame, filled with the emptiness.

Gums chewed raw, I scream out into that darkened arcade,

Praying my soul has more substance than this damn fog.

“How do I know anything exists, in the dark?!”

Holding my wounds, shaking from the night eternal,

I ponder how I came by this land of mist,

What could ever fill this emptiness within.

Though I’m bumbling and night-blind, I press on, forward.

I cough up poisoned blood as I try to breathe.

I pass by the bones of Neicheze, cloaked in black.

I smile; his emptiness has become mine.

surreal poetry
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About the Creator

Arthur Hasekura

I'm just a guy, trying to get his break in the writing business.

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