Perception. A sense of other, The binding of self; Making the box Of self-entrapment; Casting out the void And becoming the cat That knows neither death nor life.
Deception. Weaving the flesh To bring forth the word; Peopling The infinite nutshell. The false dichotomy, The lie of other, Haunts me in dead of night; Promises of truth.
Prognosis. What a slender strand, Dangling helpless, Cut by stray sweep Of Atropos' hand. Perchance cyanidic dream? Or mayhaps another's finger guilty wrapping trigger. Tis all the same, The horrid forest awaits Seven levels down.
Apotheosis. Ghosts my vision haunt, Deceit of my design. A pageant, structured faithlessly, Phantasms of the mind. Alone in troth, Will psyche endure As i cast off the self-made shroud And master the void?