But I am idle all in hate of me;
Ever in action's dream, in the false stress
Of purposed action never act to be
Like a fierce beast self penned in a bait liar,
My will to act binds with excess my action,
Not-acting coils the thought with ragged dispair,
And acting rage doth paint despair distraction
Like someone sinking in a treacherous sand,
Each gesture to deliver sinks the more,
The struggle avails not, and to raise no hand,
Thought but more slowly useless, we have no power
Hence live I the dead life each day doth bring,
Repurposed for next day's repurposing.
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