Fractals

In every leaf, a universe,

in every curve, a rhyme.

A hidden law that sings the world,

and folds itself in time.

The spiral hums through galaxies,

through shell and seed and bone.

The pattern flows, forever born,

yet never fully known.

The mountain folds through centuries,

each layer learned, replayed.

The shoreline loops its living edge,

the same, yet never stayed.

No compass rules the branching oak,

no law commands the wave.

Creation dreams itself again,

both tyrant and its slave.

I see the self in flame and star,

in reason’s patient art.

The same design that stirs the void

now beats within the heart.

Perhaps the soul’s a spiral too,

forever half-defined.

Each choice a self-born echo cast

through corridors of mind.

And somewhere, deep within the loop,

the pattern starts to see;

the spiral, gazing back on me,

beholds its ancestry.

The thought that maps the universe

is mapped within the thought.

The dreamer and the dream exchange

the pattern both have sought.

So who can tell where form begins,

or where the echo ends?

Each fractal births another world,

and every curve descends.

And now I rest within the whole,

content in what unfolds.

The shape that shapes all shapes to come,

the rhythm no one holds.