poem: the humanists are narcissists

it is hard to consider the human condition
without considering ourselves overmuch;
she has constellations tattoed on her neck
but she
is finite, a small person never living.
we pretend man has galaxies inside his eyelids,
that he is endless,
but even the poets are stained,
their pretended infinity only
an echo chamber for the pinned
butterflies
our wings crumbling faster and faster
when we try to fly. the dead and the human
are not meant to fly: we are material,
we do not transcend.

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