The Self

Often thinks about the ending.
Impoverished soul. Why so?
Brain sees itself as a walnut.
Exactly that size and that texture.
Ripe now, and dried.
if opened, you’d find
compartments still true to the model.
One or two infected with mould,
causing cross-wired circuits
and blameless mistakes (it thinks).
But the black box is still intact,
the pilot still in charge.
Holding tightly, with left arm,
the Artist.
All else matters not,
but a true imitation’s a must.

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