Poem fractal
0.048 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.
−0.0169 + 0.9123i
Drawing the boundary…
by Richard
−0.0614 + 0.9314i
Drawing the boundary…
Each poem scrolls on its own, so the two texts stay beside each other.
Joys have three stages, Hoping, Having, and Had:
The hands of Hope are empty, and the heart of Having is sad;
For the joy we take, in the taking dies; and the joy we
Had is its ghost.
Now, which is the better—the joy unknown or the joy we have clasped and lost?
by Richard
In the haze of neon dreams, where futures intertwine,
I'm at the crossroads, wondering which path is mine.
Debt's a spectral echo, haunting every turn,
As I chase ambitions, but the price I must discern.
I've been dreaming of the future, with a degree in my hand,
But the numbers start to haunt me, it's a debt I can't withstand.
Fifty grand or even more, how will I ever pay?
Is it worth the price I'm asking, or should I walk away?
Is it worth it, is it wise, to chase a dream that fades with time?
When the debt's a mountain high, can I ever climb?
Or should I settle for a life where I'm free from all this strife,
Trading books for a simple job, is that the better life?
I've seen others in the struggle, trapped by loans they can't defeat,
With interest rates that climb so high, it's a never-ending beat.
Years and years of repayments, still they see no end in sight,
I'm wondering if it's worth it, all this endless fight.
Is it worth it, is it wise, to chase a dream that fades with time?
When the debt's a mountain high, can I ever climb?
Or should I settle for a life where I'm free from all this strife,
Trading books for a simple job, is that the better life?
They say education’s freedom, a ticket to the stars,
But I'm weighed down by the numbers, and it’s breaking my heart.
Dreams of a better future, now clouded by this doubt,
Should I forge a different path, find a different route?
Is it worth it, is it wise, to chase a dream that fades with time?
When the debt's a mountain high, can I ever climb?
Or should I settle for a life where I'm free from all this strife,
Trading books for a simple job, is that the better life?
So here I stand at the crossroads, with a choice I need to make,
Do I follow my ambitions or a safer road I take?
With the burden of this question, I ponder through the night,
Hoping for an answer, a future that feels right.
A fractal is a shape that keeps its pattern when you look closer. Coastlines, trees, shells, and weather do this. The large form and the small form are the same kind of thing. A poem can be drawn that way. The shape of the whole comes from the shape of the lines.
Primunia is the name for the source of that order: the pattern under the pattern, already there in a tree, a shell, and a verse.
The number under the picture is the poem constant. It is read from the build of the lines: their length, how uneven they are, the size of the stanzas, the share of vowels, and the way the lines end. A new word moves the number when it changes that build. The same poem always gives the same number.
Drawn on its own, that number sits in a quiet part of the plane, and most poems would look like the same soft disk. So the number is carried outward along its own direction until it meets the edge of the Mandelbrot set, where the shape turns sharp. The picture is the Julia set of that meeting place.
Each point on the canvas is folded again and again by one small rule. Points that stay near the rule form the dark interior. Points that rush away become the coloured bands. The hue comes from the poem constant, and the brightest bands turn toward gold. Change the length of a line, the stanza, or the vowel share, and both the number and the picture move.
Branching draws the poem as a tree. Each turn follows a line, and every smaller branch repeats that pattern. A longer line reaches farther. The letters at the start of a line bend the next turn. A higher share of vowels opens the branches wider.
The trunk takes its colour from the poem constant and warms toward gold at the tips. When the poem has more than one stanza, gold forks leave the trunk. Each fork is a stanza beyond the first, up to three. The tree divides where the poem divides. One stanza remains a single trunk.
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