While Gods Fold Their Hands

 I've always had a keen sense 
of detachment. Even through 
suicidal grief, abject frustration 
and poverty, I have a talent to separate 
the moment from the continuum. 

So perhaps it's little note or
surprise that this techno-stalking 
of a man I once considered 
a close friend 
hasn't corrupted me into 
petty soullessness or persuaded me to 
identify with his lame egoic navel-scratching. 

This one's for you, Jeff. 
May Mrs. Green take eternal rest 
in proper order 
and your next suicide 
enjoy lasting success. 

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