We spin these fictions,
For many reasons.
Mostly just to create similar circumstances,
As cold fusion.
Nuclear or metaphorical;
It remains the same.
Infinite loops,
Creating exponentials.
More out,
Than put in.
Energy,
Or dopamine.
My custom-built engines,
Versus theirs.
“Multiple Discovery.”
The concepts of creativity –
Becoming so overstimulated,
As to create fantasy.
A place to go,
Because even your dreams are nightmares.
Cycles of Abuse –
I tore apart with my teeth.
Replaced with cycles I built myself.
Coping strategies,
Come philosophies.
Surprise!
I’m no Universe Serpent –
Floating out in Boote’s Void.
Nor the cryptid I claim to be.
The metaphors were always meant,
To be pulled apart.
Just a man,
Left inside.
Curled into a foetal position.
Returning from whence I came.
Motherless –
To That Great Void.
The Abyss,
where all things go
Selves we slaughtered.
Like fragmented data.
Failed sections of drives.
What you find,
Long since rotten away to nothing.
A skeletal version of itself,
Or ghost,
Perhaps.
Suicide attempts,
To get back to black –
Even quicker.
No illusion of truth.
Times’ve changed.
Time for living,
Now.
Fighting.
To That Great Void.
