Knowledge is a withered man.

So, enters a man,
Old and callus,
To withered to work,
But wise beyond words.
The man leaves,
Stench tails him,
Mould rises as his feet,
Leave the floor.
He is dust.
Wisdom is with you,
But only for so long,
Before it becomes old,
And used.
Second hand information,
Is infested.
Knowledge and death,
Ride hand in hand,
They are sand,
And pass through your fingers,
Fleeting, unobtainable, remote.

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