In the cathedral where silence devours its own echo,
I woke as a memory that had not yet died.
Gothic arches bent like ribs of a thinking grave,
each stone whispering: you have been here before.
I walked on bones of abandoned selves,
each step a reincarnation misremembered
ghosts wearing my face turned in slow recognition:
“We are what you refused to become.”
The mirrors did not reflect
they recurred.
Infinite versions coiling inward,
a serpent swallowing its own question.
At the altar of the First Self,
I found only a mouth
ancient, patient, devouring its tail:
the Ouroboros, crowned in forgotten names.
“Are you the beginning,” I asked,
“or the end that learned to pretend?”
It answered by tightening.
Time collapsed into a breathing loop.
I was the priest and the sacrifice,
the architect and the fracture in design
ink writing itself across the spine of night.
Each life I lived dissolved into the next,
not forward, not back
but inward, endlessly inward,
where choice becomes a closed circle.
The abyss remembered me differently each time.
Sometimes as a god I buried,
sometimes as the doubt that replaced Him,
sometimes as the door that refused to open.
And still I searched for an exit.
But the final truth bled through the stone:
There is no escape from a shape
that feeds on its own becoming.
The soul is not eternal
it is recursive.
Not a flames
but a wound that heals by reopening.
And I
I am the serpent’s forgetting,
the moment it believes
this time
it will finally let go.
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