The Lie of i

That i,

the lone one alone,

individual,

knows it is a lie.

i knows it is fractured

fragmented and fragile.

Its ruse of opinion

a mantle of hot winds, 

the agile riot of thoughts 

it claims it owns, 

cling to no framework – 

all props, no bones.

No matter the matter to which it clings,

it tries to distract

with tangible things

and tales of uniqueness

that when prodded 

have molting wings.

Beneath trembles the i.

It’s just a scaredy little guy,

afraid of dislike,

afraid to die.

It claims it is,

and at its heart,

unified (but on paper,

or screen, at least 

two 

parts).

A faction of fractions;

a fiction in friction;

an idea with Capital

given social traction

to blindly reconcile the contradiction.

Mostly just a metaphor 

for what we’re told to be.

That i

the lone one alone,

individual,

instead of We.