Are people like functions,
taking their arguments,
ultimately to exit,
yielding their return value?
Once I bit lustily from the fruit;
until the shivering insult of rot
learned me to be cautious forever.
The string in my single-quotes
automation flows forth:
the incantation remembered,
I sigh imperceptibly
as my variable expressions are manifest
and my output
is deemed satisfactory.
You cannot escape the cauldron of being you,
time’s eternal tempest;
the stillness at its center
with an elusive peace.
Its spindly legs grope frantically
for an exit from its mysterious
translucent prison. The bottom
is familiar – rough and shaggy.
The perimeter is deception,
the illusion of freedom,
summoned from above by a malevolent demigod.
She, too, familiar.
What foul magic hath sealed in this crafty creature,
even with the air around it?
What sport of it maketh these alien adjudicators
as requital for its transgression;
daring to scavenge for crumbs
in the light
just after lunchtime?