How privileged are inanimate things-
uneducated stone, the soul-less water,
a plastic doll, the dead nerve. They sleep
forever eyeless, selfless, strangers to the world.
At night, jealous winds knock down the doors
looking for the living. Outside, snow falls
mindless to the frozen earth, its essence vacuous
as shredded paper. Even words inked upon its stationary
can only invent what it means to live.
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