Default Is Mine, Oh Gored

Coincidences pile up like worsted puns,
Like dust bunnies under the bed.

They are not, they must not be
Magical, not entirely, not to me.

It's fine to be a crow, ludic mystic
Of the opportunistic death

Between the lines of unforgiving
Legislation, logos, logic, highway,

Narrow but boastful of being
So wide, thanks to misleading maps.

But I am not a corvid, of any sort,
Who can, with tilted, beady glance,

Believe as it disbelieves and cache
In the place best fit to deceive.

I have a theory of mind, but
It's mine. Your mind's not in it.

It and my world will end sometime,
I admit, but not just this minute.

If you want to know when all began,
You, your no self, has got to begin it.