The person within me is often without:
Lame with certainty sometimes, sometimes crippled with doubt.
Sometimes kicking and hitting and scratching and biting,
Forging out from within, she will come out fighting.
She is fractal, atomic, galactic, ecstatic;
Expansive, whilst infinitesimally small.
She can be fractious, acidic, chaotic, quixotic,
She endures for the squall that will signal the fall.
She endures for destruction, the chaos of growing;
The patterns pervasive, the sowing of knowing.
You can’t squash her, she is the root of a tree,
The drip-drip in a cave, the slow surge of the sea
That wears at the shoreline, languid, unhurried,
High-tidal-low-tide, she will worry, unworried.
She will rip off your hand while she gives you a heart;
She is maths, she is music, she is science and art.
She is everything you are, in fact, she is you:
She thinks just as you think, she does as you do.
She’s down with the in-crowd, she’s out on a limb;
She is cavernous, empty, and full to the brim.
Undeniably, she is more tortoise than hare…
Which seems fair.