Creation Of The Universe



Sits in my skull

A curled gray beast

Molded to its cup of bone,



The outside world

It cannot know.

Not light, air, bulk nor hues.

Just clues.


The nexus of

A finespun net

Which terminates its axon fist

In mist.


Its billion lines

Transmit responses

Sifting pulses; all compiled

And filed.


Confusion, first ubiquitous.

Unvectored bits, zero, one

‘Til the sources are assigned,



Woven nerves

Festooned with figures;

Puzzled with the patterns, matching,



Lacing through

From point to point.

Architecting, congruencing,



Congealing concepts.

Counting, seeking.

Logic engine freely dreaming,



Fitting this,

Forming that,

Smoothing, joining, multiplying.



Granting trope

Its own dynamic.

Now it all agglomerates

And mates.


Sloughing off

All errata,

Chaos clears.





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