Ode to a Space Monkey

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What profit has he who labored for the wind?
Alone in darkness. Silence. Sickness.
Knowledge strengthens a soul more than any gym.
Tears remain. Sweat’s replaced with pallor.

Crimson running swiftly through baby blue veins.
There’s no wisdom or work in the grave.
When a man turns to dust, one thing remains:
the body of work of a howler.

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