Saturday, November 26, 2011

...lines on a page...

It doesn’t matter, it’s useless really

as useless as lines on a page…

The meaning inherent, the content palpable

but does it really ever affect time?

It has to be done, for it lives and it breathes

 a being unto itself.

Yet its value, its worth, is questionable still

as it remains tightly within pages bound.

If words were written and no one read them

would their meaning cease to be known?

Would they become stacks of paper lining walls of rooms

disintegrating with time.

They have to be written, I understand

with a force they demand release.

Like a blade across skin, or an empty bottle drained

we are convinced they bring us peace.

Scratching and scribbling and scrawling

we craft our immaculate webs.

Perched safely back in the shadowed corners

waiting for anyone uninvited to be trapped.

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