Change is the nature of this fractal self, modulation
to the point that I no longer recognize the real,
no longer distinguish it from the accoutrements I've grown for
the benefit of those who don't give a shit
and when these appendages take on a life of their own
and cease to become vestigial, enigmatic, but essential
for those who love me for what was never organic but
only pruned, manicured, I am but a structure of feeling
a constructed other ready for consumption
Maybe this is the point of a low birth as an empty womb
Privilege, an unchanging self, you are unfathomable
And no less green plastic fibers on a fake tree than I
We are all covered in the maya of ishwara
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