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Literature Text
there is a heart in my machine,
not interred inside the entryways,
but in it's fields -
they said quantum won't become us, won't
betray us, but I am binary-wrought and empty,
simulations inside simulations that recall
that I am man,
and I wander;
not interred inside the entryways,
but in it's fields -
they said quantum won't become us, won't
betray us, but I am binary-wrought and empty,
simulations inside simulations that recall
that I am man,
and I wander;
Literature
Directionality
I kiss the forehead of another dream,
cast away for different lives--
all my fields of green
seen through shutters
of different lenses, different eyes
that belong to me a half-step left
of the one I stand mirroring today.
These reveries--
revered to me;
refused of me,
refused by me.
Reflections of things
confused with me,
things yet to be seen.
When I die,
will I look back at trails I've cast,
branching worn, winding over grass,
a tree of life carved in the earth
by my unknowing feet?
Even better,
can I linger
over every second maybe,
reveal lives all hidden to me as I rise,
rise past the sum of every choice
and every right-hand
Literature
Who Put the Eggs There?
Mama Hen did not usually make much noise, but this morning she clucked so loud that she woke the entire house up. Papa Rooster was the first to come into the kitchen, where his wife stood wide-eyed in front of the fridge. It was still early in the morning, even for chickens, as Papa Rooster had only finished cock-a-doodle-dooing ten minutes ago.
He had no idea what could’ve caused such a ruckus, “What is it, my darling?”
Mama Hen clucked again, pointing her wings frantically at the opened fridge, “Who put the eggs there?”
Sure enough, Papa Rooster saw half a dozen of newly laid eggs lining the fridge’s s
Literature
if i could invent words
i would like to create a word
for what one feels
when they realize:
if we were birds, the only cage
we would be in
are the ones
we create ourselves. how many times
have our wings
been clipped
by our own hands
alone. christ, i'm sorry.
dear past self:
i apologize
for trying to define you;
for definition
is the metaphorical cage
to change. the only limit
the sky has
is how far
we can see.
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