Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.043 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.

Bugging Out

by Richard

−0.1830 + 0.6987i

Drawing the boundary…

Amorphous is the mind

by Edna St. Vincent Millay

−0.1411 + 0.6906i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

Bugging Out

by Richard

I woke up one fine morning, feeling something strange,
Looked down at my new body, oh, this is quite the change,
Legs a-wiggle, shell a-shine, I’m not sure how to cope,
Living life as a giant bug, there’s really little hope.

I’m bugging out, bugging out, in this crazy human world,
With my antennae up, my plans unfurled,
I’m bugging out, bugging out, trying to get along,
Who knew an insect’s life could inspire a song?

The cat’s indifferent, the dog’s afraid, Mum’s clutching at her pearls,
Dad’s got the broom, and Grete’s fainting, it’s a rollercoaster whirl,
Tried to text my boss, told him I’d be late,
Ended up with pizza, oh, life’s a twist of fate.

I’m zooming through the chat rooms, looking for my kin,
Found a toaster transformation, but no one quite like me within,
Webcam call with colleagues, they’re laughing, can’t believe,
I might be a giant bug, but I still know how to grieve.

Scuttling ‘cross the floorboards, dodging every broom,
Avoiding all the sunlight, I prefer the darkened gloom,
Work’s a lost endeavour, my boss left quite a note,
But I’m adjusting to this new life, even if remote.

So here’s to metamorphosis, in this digital age,
Living life as a giant bug, on my very own stage,
I’m bugging out, bugging out, making my own way,
Learning to embrace this life, come what may.

Amorphous is the mind

by Edna St. Vincent Millay

Amorphous is the mind; its quality
Is in its fibre, not its form;
If it desire to fly it puts on wings,
Awkwardly, not like a bird
At first (though later); the rustle of a thing half-heard
Can twist it as iron at times is twisted by a wind-storm or word after word
Can pummel it for hours yet leave it like a leaf on a still day unstirred.

But a man’s habit clings
And he will wear tomorrow what today he wears.

The mind is happy in the air, happy to be up there with
Learning feathers, but the man loathes it.

The mind cries “Up! Oh, up!
Oh, let me try to fly!
Look! I can lift you!” but he smothers its cry;
Out of thrift, and fear of next year's feathers, he clothes it in last years things
And tries his best to button across a keelshaped breast a coat knobbed out by new wings.

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