I'm quite half complete,
I've to rush to get back to be.
Time is short, slime bubbles of sort,
Floating in the morning sea.
Or maybe I'm a Boltzmann sketch,
I drift through space and time.
Every time I complete the sketch,
I solve for another prime.
What day is it, in what coordinates?
Surely off axis when I run.
The flying teapot was as nonplussed,
As I was nonchalant.
Then opened a hole within a goal,
A span of an atom now fanning light years.
Stretched specious space time,
Hold on to your rears.
I know I'm going to just be here, not somewhere,
And where exactly is where?
Recursion is often hard to break,
Without a hammer used with care.
Now that may be an idea,
I need my box of carpenter tools.
I'll saw the milky-way in half,
Andromeda always full of fools.
The birds in my head chirping songs of the dead,
Requiem to the mourning I yearn.
A feeble hope in madness remains,
Only when memories of self will burn.
