Stories From Childhood
When I was young,
A story told itself to me,
unravelling like the mind,
of an old man,
at the feet,
of my childish bed,
and weaving itself,
into my mind,
like a cancer.
A mind once told its body that,
it knew best,
and proved it by becoming the body.
The body,
shocked by the hubris,
soon became the mind,
and the light around them,
began to ask why they fought,
and soon was consumed by the mind.
The body, finding the mind indignant,
found it had to consume too,
and so consumed time itself,
making the mind ill with thoughts of death,
soon excised by distilling a vial,
of pain,
and drinking the bitter mixture,
till the mind knew its purpose,
and the body knew its.
As I come to sleep,
it tells me once again,
what world the mind created,
and how the body secretes its existence.