A child
Laying on the ceiling
Has the look of me.
To the left
Another incarnation of myself
And on the floor sits the source
Of these reflections
There is no door, no window
To this room’s cube
Where all surface is mirror to light
No shadows.
I am surrounded by myself
Unable to escape
I am matter
And being so I am the only thing reflected
Endlessly
A compelling urge
opens my arms
my body is spinning,
And humming.
The cubic prison
Does the same
and friction of the self
is born from movement
I stop spinning
But my reflections do not.
The humming intensifies.
Glass starts to crack
I am thrown away from myself
Through and above the room
When it shattered
My body fell forever,
Until it hit the ground
Feb 19, 2017
Feb 19, 2017 at 10:03 PM UTC
A child
Laying on the ceiling
Has the look of me.
To the left
Another incarnation of myself
And on the floor sits the source
Of these reflections
There is no door, no window
To this room’s cube
Where all surface is mirror to light
No shadows.
I am surrounded by myself
Unable to escape
I am matter
And being so I am the only thing reflected
Endlessly
A compelling urge
opens my arms
my body is spinning,
And humming.
The cubic prison
Does the same
and friction of the self
is born from movement
I stop spinning
But my reflections do not.
The humming intensifies.
Glass starts to crack
I am thrown away from myself
Through and above the room
When it shattered
My body fell forever,
Until it hit the ground
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