Inner monologue gets louder, pulse begins to quicken
A growing sense of desperation vies for recognition.
The tone gets more insistent and a thousand voices ask
which clump of molecules is in charge behind the mask?
Inches from the mirror I study my disguise,
hoping I can see the me that lies behind the eyes.
I'll process the objective, trying not to see.
The fractal patterns that divide into infinity.
Trapped inside a universe behind my eyelids closed
I glimpse the logarithmic hell from which I am composed,
If you take away your senses, all that you'll feel is alive
Like stripping paint from canvas to find from which part art is derived.
If maths is what I'm made of, then I don't want to know
for once I fear the truth is hear it's never gonna wanna go.
We're all made of nature, and if nature's all the same
how can a soul be grown up in a dish but still it isn't tame?