Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.035 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.

The Lake Isle of Innisfree

by William Butler Yeats

0.0481 + 0.6291i

Drawing the boundary…

The Wannabe Blues

by Richard

0.0323 + 0.6601i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

The Lake Isle of Innisfree

by William Butler Yeats

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet’s wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart’s core.

The Wannabe Blues

by Richard

Flipped through magazines, a million faces stared,
Doctors, lawyers, astronauts, dreams I couldn't bear.
Dreams as big as the sky, ambitions piled up high,
To pick just one, felt like a cage, a life half-lived, you see.
So I chased them all, a butterfly with wings of maybe.

Wannabe a rockstar, singing to the crowd,
Wannabe a painter, splash my colours loud.
Wannabe a writer, with words that take you far,
But I'm a wannabe of everything, ending up with nothing but a scar.
I'm a wannabe, a coulda-shoulda-wouldabin,
Trying to be everything, ending up with nothing.

Couldabin a doctor, studied all those nights,
Shouldabin a scholar, top of the class,
Wouldabin an athlete, fast as the wind,
But the fear of failure held me down, whispered silent shrouds.
Procrastination let it all pass, comfort food became my only win.

The years keep rolling by, the mirror shows the cost,
Of chasing dreams in fragments, a life forever lost.
The "what ifs" and "should haves" echo in my head,
A symphony of choices, a melody of dread.
So many paths, so many doors, now I'm lost on empty shores.
Chasing shadows, grasping air, a jack of all trades, master of nowhere.

Maybe it's not too late, to pick a single flame,
Fan the embers gently, whisper a new name.
One dream, one focus, a chance to finally see,
If the wannabe can become who they're really meant to be.
I'm just a wannabe, that's all I'll ever be,
A coulda-shoulda-wouldabin story.

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