the disillusioned

you can pursue suffering;

you can make a sport of it

heaping tons, nay, mountains

of pain and loss upon yourself.

 

but to what end?

to satisfy your pride, obdurate heart?

to indulge your vanity, clever boy.

 

and there's the rub:

suffering serving the same purpose

as pleasure to a blind soul seeming;

though all may be well

or so, one can only hope.

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