Escher’s Prints.
Like strips of worn elastic I did stretch,
to make myself what others said I should,
until the fabric snapped and fell asunder
unravelled psyche’s ground on which I stood.

There was the barest image left to see,
through empty strands of nothingness and fear,
but substance and true form was rent apart;
with nothing left of what I knew as me.



About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
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