Cerebro

Each head sits,
biding time
with rules of pressure
for each line
until, as it is quite often,
 a certain lack
or, maybe, plenty
of stories begin to devise
inside of  her winding,
wrecked,
(although,
as she prefers it,
experienced)
hills and valleys
except the dips do not mean less
and each whole just as deep
as the grainy slopes
filled with words and a particularly
undetermined idea of time
that can only,
in the search for definition,
hope to build some mounds
with fellow ditches
to carry out the finite 
worth that can be resolved,
formulated,
or, on a good day,
destroyed into the acceptance
of a certain place incapable
of accessing a limit
but still knowing, and maybe
only because it is primate,
so the birds might learn it,
of far, and end, and absolute
instead of wisdom
and infinite
and confused
in some amalgamation
of sounds and tones
to describe the universe.