Love is not a feeling,
says Ludwig.
Philosophy is healing,
a hole I dig.

I’m afraid of purity,
innocence of a child,
those who love security,
and a temperament mild.

Morality invokes my anger
Furious at those who stray away
Holding me like an anchor
Ethics is an axe on the fourth of May.

Raindrops tenderly soak my notes,
Muddling my rules and laws.
Drifting water like midnight boats,
Frozen words melt and thaw.

The brilliance of knowledge accrued in philosophy
is a treat to my weary neurons
weighed down by echoes of bland priorities.



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