our somalian shadow lurks in corners.
neither soon nor heard, he walks gingerly,
his only traces are disturbances in air patterns, shifts in dust.
he walks these corridors daily,
taking pleasure in undulating echoes reverberating off immaculate marble.
slips into a hole,
listens to x&y diatribes,
seeing their faces tilted up
towards this shrunken old dwarf as if he holds a key
with all his incessent talk.
gingerly, he breaks off an integral.
slipping it into his mouth,he tastes knowledge,
cold and smooth.
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