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The Bravura Of One's Imperial Ego
The Bravura Of One's Imperial Ego
I am probably drowning
in my loneliness
because I misjudged
the setting sun
how this small world
of mine is still unaware of
the anthesis and the
underlying influence
like footsteps without
feet, or doors without
walls, just small windows
when I glanced askance
I read a passage where it
says growth is outward
—from within,
Like cells unobserved
but very slowly comes
forth, under the skin
I wanted to know about
my own letters, still devoid
of meaning.. like a lease
on life, muscling in
a dark, to grey, changeover..
as the weather,
the reports just
tell me
trusting Siri (or A.I.) just
get to me,
believing the impossibility,
digital imaginary/
cybercultural identity
The angels are not like
birds, in the sky, that
fly
But because of the
many what ifs, what if
every word's a lie?
