A mere habit

I sell my brain plasma to you. Whoever you do;
whatever you do might not be you, psyche you.
We read in the dark. The ancient dark,
my skin feels it running. Running like light.
As fast, here in nature, the conquerer of egoism.
How our brains knew of themselves instead of
cooing to the vast black wholeness we wish
were ours, were us. This expanse of nerves
I inhabit isn’t what either of us chose,
is it? We might be a decades-old slime mold.
Nature is mere habit, and we are mere habits.

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~ by Jeremy on June 16, 2012.

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