Life in a Whorl

Our identity defined by the looping parabolas
of our thumb, hypnotically drawing us in to the center,
just as surely as that barcode we wear around our necks,
a stranglehold –

the concentric spiraling parameters of a life
built brick by brick,
walled in until the background blurs
and all options narrow down
to the solidity of what is.

In the forefront we are only black and white;
a jutting Adam’s apple attests to original sin,
any greenery lies behind in the lost garden.
The world as we know it has no dimension.

One ear is on alert, the other one deaf,
ignoring any input that doesn’t suit
the life that we have so meticulously built.