A spider’s web.

I weave invisible threads and a pattern emerges

like a kaleidoscope of dazzling colours

that refract my narrative.

The implosion creates an inner puzzle.

Do I know what you don’t know;

don’t I know what you know?

Can we bridge our island of understanding?

Knowledge has shape only if it fits into a mould,

that mould is a mirage.

We destroy it when it falls out of fashion;

if we keep it, it becomes archival,

a temple of the mind.

We wrestle with the real

and truth slips from the hand.

Our elusive dream is to conquer the unconquerable,

vanquish doubt, pronounce certainty,

and say, we are value-free.

We create a church, illusory,

but it habituates and secures thought.

My story seeks but promises no answer.

I am a web.