Monday, 31 December 2012

I, Ego

In a plurality of patterns, blind,
Grasping onto strings,
Painfully weave and wind,
Fossils out of flux.

Little did I know, zero,
That one pattern brings forth
Two, two bring four.
And so on.

It isn’t just reflection, poor self,
So obsessed with coherence.
No, it projects and multiplies,
Transmits and interferes.

Map a course through the fog,
But you’re a ghost,
Lost in the fog,
Looking for a ghost.

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