Naught

I was naught here and now inumerable,
A mutating mitosis in a miasma of
A conveyor belt floor destined for a paradox,
Cyclical surroundings and a transforming epicentre,
Incalculably indoctrinating into something other than
Nothing; naught; zero; zilch; nada; absence

Potential.
The first pebble that broke the waters’ skin,
Teeth breaking and chattering in the just-
above-zero-degree deluge of defrosting
In the process of always becoming.
Never ceasing to sojourn,
Always flitting forwards, careening, a rotating dial –
clip, clip, clip, clip. Rotating paper displays,
Manifold possibilities from nine-to-zero,
Slicing decimals aggregating,
An impugn to what was round and is now recurring

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