I make things so big
That I pale in comparison.
I construct intricate, composite, and nuanced realities,
But I, myself, am simple.
I overload the weight of words and their tone,
That I, in my weakness, can’t carry alone
All things seem complex and so infinite,
but me.
I absorb,
and inhale,
And can draw only dichotomies.
This or that.
Yes or no.
Oh yes, I can stay —
No, I really must go.
But these chasms are false
And they reek contradiction.
For if I build and I create,
These polarities become fiction.
