The Conceit

Flower

Beneath all sense and sensation

Where the secret gears revolve,

Where the snap and slap of molecules

Enforce the chains of interaction

Tightly confined by history’s

Ken of missteps to disaster,

Processes proceed to decree

What whims may move to generate

Solidities of what we think as will.

 

This hubris each of us accepts

That we decide how and what and when

Discounts continuity’s mechanics,

Ignores those flicks of memory,

Twitches of perception,

Are chemistry and circumstance.

We luxuriate in self deception

Are unaware

We are a cosmetic flower

Perched within this strange beast’s hair.

 

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