Intricacy is innate
in the things that we do
we breathe,
speak in microtones,
eat with countless tastebuds.

And yet we have standards.
You flip your frames
move your people
(pieces on a board)
change your colors,
and while you bore some
others see you and whisper
intricate.

“How do they sleep at night
with so many gears turning in their noggin
waterwheels,
constantly overflowing,
raining thunderstorms
and flashing lightning
onto their dancing neurons?”

“I don’t know.”

But we rest fine, don’t we?