Growing with every fact, every stat,
But I’m becoming smaller, shrinking, down-right miniaturizing.
Senses still alive,
But where am I going?
Who, or what
Am I becoming?
A paradox is blooming.
I look for the trees, but I see only the leaves.
I search for the lawn, but only blades of grass are seen.
His stories, her stories,
But there seems only to be
History.