Lost little gnostic
making manifest a destiny,
etching out a time and place.
And projecting this caustic
renders a retraceable recipe;
anchor latched on empty space.
What sorcery -
this orrery,
releasing me?
Unincarnate, I shine;
hydra-headed polycosms emerge,
we yell, "Look at that fucker Dance!"
See how my other half lives!
...half lives.
Is it too late?
(It is too late - it was always too late.)
In half lives, I missed the immersive:
identity's inanimate riposte;
Gödel's long, weary sigh.
Forced perspective;
negative space's substance lost
on the all-seeing eye.