Copying copy

Far too much into our reality,
We copy it after it slips away

While running on our spokes
Of motor cycle in eight form

In a centrifugal pull to reality.
Sheer your machine to eight

Or as a compass will appear
And the north is everywhere

Slipping away to a south lea,
Froth at stern, hills drowned,

A white bird ducking the real
Copy is not reality but vision

In white hollow of a cranium
An attempt to capture reality

With only the shell remaining
We hold on to as dying men.