Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.026 apart. A smaller distance means the lines are built more alike.

This number is read from the build of the lines. The bright edge is that number, carried outward until the pattern repeats.

Twenty-five thousand days

by Richard

−0.2783 − 0.4704i

Drawing the boundary…

The Hymn of the Wiltshire Laborers

by Charles Dickens

−0.2599 − 0.4885i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

Each poem scrolls on its own, so the two texts stay beside each other.

Twenty-five thousand days

by Richard

From the silence of my grave
I count the cost of fortunes made
A lifetime chasing shiny things
Now death its final audit brings

Six feet under, cold and still
Wealth I hoarded, now bequeathed
Chased those dollars with iron will
Left behind, no fortune beneath

Twenty-five thousand days, all we get
More precious than gold, our only asset
Time's the true wealth we fail to see
Now it's too late for a spending spree

Invested all in golden dreams
Forgot to cash in moments plenty
Nature's beauty, unseen by me
Family dinners, chair left empty

If I could again balance life's ledger
I'd invest in joy, and not be a hedger
The richest aren't those who make the most
They're those who of much time could boast

Time's the true currency, spend it well
Stories shared are wealth to tell
In this vault of earth, one truth remains
The true profit of life lies not in gains

The Hymn of the Wiltshire Laborers

by Charles Dickens

God! who by Thy prophet's hand
Didst smite the rocky brake,
Whence water came, at Thy command,
Thy people's thirst to slake;
Strike, now, upon this granite wall,
Stern, obdurate, and high;
And let some drops of pity fall
For us who starve and die!

The God who took a little child
And set him in the midst,
And promised him His mercy mild,
As, by Thy Son, Thou didst:
Look down upon our children dear,
So gaunt, so cold, so spare,
And let their images appear
Where lords and gentry are!

O God! teach them to feel how we,
When our poor infants droop,
Are weakened in our trust in Thee,
And how our spirits stoop;
For, in Thy rest, so bright and fair,
All tears and sorrows sleep:
And their young looks, so full of care,
Would make Thine angels weep!

The God who with His finger drew
The judgment coming on,
Write, for these men, what must ensue,
Ere many years be gone!
O God! whose bow is in the sky,
Let them not brave and dare,
Until they look (too late) on high,
And see an Arrow there!

O God, remind them! In the bread
They break upon the knee,
These sacred words may yet be read,
"In memory of Me!"
O God! remind them of His sweet
Compassion for the poor,
And how He gave them Bread to eat,
And went from door to door!

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