He sits cross legged

He sits cross legged like a child,
interpreting the maladies
as if they were some psychotropic babble.

He wants to see the wispy, wavy essence of life.
More often he doesn't.
He sees the imperfections
   --is jaded like some beggar
living off of other peoples achievements,
theoretically plotting against them.

Trying to pull away,
he retreats further into his own mind.
Inadequacies keep this being pinned.
Unable to escape, he does the next best thing
   --sheds his soul into the deepest crevices
like frightened insects so that he might have peace.

Becoming the simplest of ironies,
he continues to live as if he were normal.
He learns to mimic, manipulate,
becomes both the purest of beings, just wanting to escape,
and a sinister imitation of the troubled human condition.

He cannot feel without you to show him how,
cannot sit still with all this insipid uncertainty.
Watch as he feeds off of you
   --shows you just how methodically logical,
just how cold,
you can truly be

and in the end undo you, spreading
like sweet, sweet newly uncovered truth.