Unmake Me

Crept along at first
Suspicion that the edifices
Were not of of my making, but of yours

The map of the waystations of the sacred geometry is too slippery to be trusted
But it's all I have to go on.

Circle and line, circle and line
With you at every nexus.

From there; to you I'm malice
From there, enchantment and paradox
A gordian knot
Laughter, Grace

Unmake me!
Infinite regress that makes stops at the waystations
Collects the me's, and returns them to I
Suspicion abates
And there is only

This.