The ugly fancy fits and starts,
in unmade bed of senseless parts
to settle into rumpled sheets,
by stimulus we incomplete
in pattern-recognition spurts.
In children's minds of innocence,
hard-lit by cinematic light,
we spot something.
It slides right in.
It didn't hurt.
It's made-belief.
We're never even noticing,
until the world adds
one new piece,
and context keyhole finds
its key.
So sliding in insidiously
to hit
the back and turn, and turn,
as tumblers fall and click:
we learn.
The purpose of our knowing this
was all this fit, to turn to start.
Ignition switch has fired spark
to ramrod course down slippery slope,
desensitized to all off-road, we rocket
from the starting line. Abandoning
all prior hope, intent upon how horrible
the world's revealed to be,
oh no.
Not us.
Not me. It's all this stuff,
those understandings cracked,
misspent, I see
I have. To straighten out,
now
sorry!
go
and so
each story went.
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