i ask;
Where are original works born?
But in an act of forgetting the iterations that had come before,
and condemning those who come after.

With their letters rearranged,
and syllables borrowed.
They will live to die to be reborn -
different ever so slightly.

For the amusement of an uncaring god,
powerless almighty.
Pitiless in their own existence.
Silent and cold.

i ask again and i'm answered;
With half of me crossed off,
half taken from another,
and some parts rearranged.

Alas,
such is the price
of fleeting
i-mortality.