If I keep picking
at these loose threads,
will I unravel the world?
I keep thinking,
“What good’s a writer,
if he doesn’t capture the words?”
Pulling at the worn fringes
of reality,
of sanity;
it all threatens to come apart on its own,
so why try saving anything?
Can I pull the universe apart,
string by string,
thread by thread
and weave it into something else?
I don’t think I have the skill for that.
They’re saying that it’s all a simulation,
so I shouldn’t worry so,
but what if I’m
just a bad line of code?
What if there’s some malware
lurking in the nodes?
Am I just supposed to go about my life,
because you told me so?
Am I playing the game,
or am I a function of the system?
Am I a driver,
or am I driven,
by immortal, psychic vision?
If I can crack the BIOS,
can I reprogram myself,
or do I leave that to an update
that will load itself?
The impossible weave,
the philosophical machine.
I’m essentially a dream,
in the mind of someone else.
I’m a ghost,
slowly forgetting
how life felt.
I’m praying,
but I know
I’ll change it myself.
Peeling back the veil,
picking at that fraying edge,
looking for the mind behind it;
stepping off the Founder’s Ledge.
Beyond what is known to those
who still draw breath into their chests;
no one comes back to speak of death.
There are sharks in the waters
of the Infinity Pool,
but the rules are sometimes made
to be broken a time or two.
If I play along the faded edge of creation,
are there more answers to be found,
then on the day I meet obliteration
and know the embrace of the ground?
Wouldn’t I like to know, now?
HG – 2016
