My cell

The air is dry, and the floor is cold
A smooth, rounded surface to this black cell
The door emits no light, no sound
No answer to half-whispered thoughts
That perhaps never really existed.
Languishing, lying, foetid and feral
Could this person be that same one
That same creature
Who wrestled with misunderstood truths,
Stared in wonder at the night sky,
Laughed at the end of all things,
Designed a life for itself,
And abandoned its hearth.
What is this collection of ideas that calls itself a man?