Mocking birds

My humble neighbours have recently started exercising
their vocal cords, only I’ve never ordered Wordsworth’s The Daffodils
to be recited in magpieese on my bedroom windowsill
at five in the morning.

However, it did get me thinking: what if the answer really is forty-two—
although I’m still not a cricket fan—but it was ordered by magpies, not mice,
and I’m stuck amongst shadows, alone, in this panopticon
full of sophisticated probability engines?

But why do I feel
like one ancient Greek is mocking another again?


More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com

Watching from the sidelines

Life always seemed to be outside the realm of our expertise,
and as unrepentant as one can be, we thrived on the idea
that any seemingly genuine feeling other than all the anguish
that one could muster would turn out to be nothing but a façade,
so instead we have been collecting stains since time immemorial
and, ever eager for a gaze into the abyss, continue to do so.
But what’s most bizarre is that we truly intend to celebrate
our forlorn retirement as if we were mere spectators
in this panopticon.