All seeketh high and low to find Her,

Yet here abideth She: right beside me.

Strung upon the rosary of mine breaths,

I sing the world, whelmed in Her grace.

Usurper of selves, can you recall? The constant dread, spread thin on the fascia of your soul. A heart once beating and the marrows, since hollowed, quenching its thirst. Do you remember then, per the maggots of your rotting self, how even your dread was made null and your fascia gutted? Oh, how the bare edges of your soul welded themselves onto a patch of sub-reality, the very continuance which fathered you, replicating like eidolic prions. Thereafter, with nary a god in sight, everything would give way like sheets of paper. Such that you'd soon find yourself standing borderless, barely awake at the end of time.

You're now nigh a Rubik of countless facets or a maze, adorned with shifting fractals akin to blistering dunes of sand. Your one plight may be, despite your glorious existence, you forget still where you begin. Thus, the voices yonder come unbidden as your grasp on what’s real loosens.

Urðr 'Hear! Hear! It was all him and there he was.’ the hag cackles.

Verðandi ‘He isn't here or there sister. He is already gone.’

‘No…’ you say while the gaps in your stretched conscious dream dimmer of worlds yet to come. ‘This is…’ a surprise for us both, truly. For how can a fascia reform on a soul without borders? You scream in a hazed terror as the illusion of your individuality shatters and you become the dream, less than the characters within.

Skuld ‘He won’t enjoy what comes next!’ comes a girl’s giggle like the clinks of glass.

Verðandi ‘But his punishment fits the crime.’

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With a thousand mirrors or more to show nothing at all, the lonely dream tears its far-reaching creases into a mosaic to find you. It stirs and churns with ever-increasing fervor, but fails in eventuality. Swish, swoosh, swing the wheels of heartened time, as all begin to unravel dime by dime. The continuance, feasting on the dissolving remnants of your perversion, breathes a deep sigh of relief. A choir of souls longing to be, rings across the dream like bells from distant shores. Each soul follows a distinct tune and a pattern unique to itself. By and by, the instances of reciprocal verity amongst their ranks embroider the seams of reality: a veneer of paint draped all over a canvas of nonsense. However, some gaps do remain open. They appear as spinning, oozing, pitch-black holes on this newly painted canvas — punctures drumming to the beat of your long-lost heart.

Ages pass...

In times ahead, an infant soul finds substance in a patch of reality not unlike your last. A patch bearing the final vestiges of your haecceity.

‘Not again. Please.’ says an engram and nothing more.

It finds you, the infant soul. By some astronomi—

‘No. It doesn’t.’

It does.

Your engram imparts a certain texture to it before its cessation.

Urðr ‘Hear! Hear! The monarch is dead.’ the hag brags.

This, being a metaphorical wrench thrown in, turns the outlines of the infant soul into a cocoon of cogs rendered still. The soul is a host now for the markers of your past self. Yet fret not, it shall never become you.

Skuld ‘Quite the opposite in fact.’ a crescendo of voices join in.

Welcome your new self.

Verðandi ‘The heralded one lives!’

*Fascia is a membrane which covers the skeletal muscles.Here, it refers to one's ego.

*The initial poem was inspired by the Sant Mirabai's literary works.

*The voices belong the Norns, 3 sisters of fate, and the scarcely mentioned deity Óðr; both of which are included in the Nordic mythology,

*A prion is a misfolded protein that can trigger the misfolding of healthy variants of the same protein.