Crowded

A bit lonely and quiet

But plenty of space

The bacterium floats in

Its own little place

A tickle and itch

It rubbed and it scratched

And split into another

That perfectly matched

No longer alone

And part of a pair

It suddenly had thoughts

And feelings to share

But after a while

And with only two

They struggled to think

Of anything new

Then after a while

They were itching some more

Split and divided

The two became four

At last fresh opinion

They started debate

With half of them winning

Until four became eight

Opinion swayed

One way then the other

They started to get

In all sorts of bother

A majority formed

No ground in between

When all of a sudden

Eight was sixteen

The original one

Who started the cause

Was starting to see

The mob and its flaws

But those on the fringe

With a very strong view

Began influencing many

Who were now thirty two

Stuck bang in the middle

And feeling oppressed

The original one

Was becoming distressed

Its thoughts were ignored

Small voice heard no more

Under the mass

Of now, sixty four

The outsiders were separating

With distances great

And voices were massing

One hundred and twenty eight

Individuals merged

Into and amorphous blob

Single voices lost

Within a collective mob

When doubling again

The goal was united

Fanatical commentary

Globally recited

And in the middle

The original one

Was quiet and lonely

Its identity gone