Written lines collide.
The points they make,
Cheap ink meandering to a stop,
Stammering metre and ragged rhyme.
Lines,
Convergent, parallel,
Illusion joins them
At the vanishing point
Distance reduces everything,
Diminishes everything.
Vision concentrates to zero
Written lines,
Printed on a page.
© BH, 2017
A little something for the new year. God knows what it’s about. Probably the truth, in this year of so many alternatives to it.
More of that, later…
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