He became conversant through constant disporting,
amusing, entertaining, seeing, self-informing, supporting
the hunger, the thirst
quenching
from within,
deep within.
It sought him, imploring him,
him to an end.
And he came to an end, alright.
He finished up as an informed man.
Approaching him, respecting him, you'd shake his hand.
Everything, most everything—as always—would go as planned
He'd deliver his spiel and then return to his state as a quiet man.
That's what he was,
all he was
when he wasn't teaching.
40 years of teaching passed in a day.
Upon completion, he didn't remark, "Yay!"
Suddenly and knowingly (or so it appeared) he accepted his retirement
and took it as synonymous
with the concept of fulfillment.
This, of course, was an odd notion for him to cling to.
Him, being a philosopher man.
At least, that was the sentiment imbued.
But it was not true, not true at all.
For upon taking a pill and falling asleep
there was one knowledge he was never yet to keep
He thought he knew it all.
At minimum, he knew all of his dead loved ones' biographies
from beginning to end.
But he didn't know his own that much,
just knowledge of the rest.
Into rest, this educated man resided.
All that stimulation that had grasped him, had seized him,
all that knowledge
was gone.
There was him that he didn't know ever.
There was the rest that he obsessively knew until the knowledge abruptly died.
Then there was THE rest, which he was bound to know forever.
The only thing that defined him as he lied.
