by ibull

what a game can do
depends on how you read it
can you see
the things that be
those words that exist
to trick you.

you are you
and you and you
ad infinitum, except
with each twist and turn,
pivot, subsume,
“it” depends on when.

lick, blink,
press to oblivion,
but nothing feels like
scent remembers,
as everything smells a’ history.

born in dust
the barn a’fire
an ember whisks you away,
and while be-fore you feared a’burning,
as a gas
thy freedom come.

what a joke
you’ve fallen for,
a narrative that saves you;
for you must reconcile
your hate of you,
that is you being you.

the you of you
is a deep, fried bucket of lies;
revived ad nauseum thanks in part
to the games that serve
you solitude.