My own twenty-three,
rather personal pi,
is a sun worshipping butterfly,
but as appropriately marked,
predestined or not,
I became a moon lit moth.
I cannot define what i imply-
sick vanity beneath the one great eye?
Or another perfect defect from
the machine mirrored on every rung
of every class, to every race-
electroshocks behind each face?
Do broken-home-viewed fairy tale cartoons
do what the most illumed know to?
Blood revelation spilt down the line
pools in cracked reflections
sold as mine.
Instant overloaded “information”
brewed with suspicion
sure sways my mission,
and so a mystic’s coincidence
is each survivor’s evidence.
The lines are drawn far,
but still too near:
again and again the Eastern Star appears!
A new world truth I can’t unsee;
why do I feel it so personally?
Reduced to a cliche:
How much am I in it?
How far does it go?
Or rather it reach?
Would I rather not know?
Now that the comfort
of the possibility
has shrank
of the voices
being my own,
I am left
alarmingly wanton
for something
with which to cope.
And my illusions of magic
crushed underhoof-
magnificent mineral orbs-
are but the welcomely feasted
sperm of Leviathon
all this time?
c’est moi