A Line Is A Dot That Went For A Walk

Each day brims with dots rivaling the stars
and bursts. Millions pursue me as I await
penetration, integration, creation.

A dot is an adventure contained
within infinite boundaries.
The mystery blooms, the line emerges: here,
a rigid, attentive marching row of Marines,
there a meandering rivulet of rain,
sometimes wavering and shaking like a drunk,
other times oozing blood-viscous. The hand

takes no heed of the mind’s instruction. It is a
wayward teenager determined to discover itself.

We walk slowly over the page; it is meditation,
a masterpiece of attention.

We whirl, sometimes a writhing orgy of squiggles,
sometimes a jagged clash of angles. Each journey,

Explore posts in the same categories: Aenigmas (My Poems), Arts, Humanities, Journal, Poetry

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