the words
meet in little lines
that merge
hard on the eyes.
small words of mere
nothingness,
gliding along the page
for sight to molest
in ways profane,
gleaning meaning
from what is ordinarily
mundane.
so smooth,
the pen traces out images
set behind the eyes
to gather where
sparks of energy
conceive new patterns
of thought
where none seemed to be
before.
like walking through
an open door
that always seems to be
closed
when you look back
over your shoulder.
sometimes a curtain is
just a curtain.
symbolically,
the tiny words
come together
to form sentences
that merge into paragraphs
that mean as much as the
words, individually.
we always hope they mean more
than they do,
somehow always fixated on you
and your life
and the way you perceive
the happenings
that construct analytically
in a horizontal fashion.
constructed of passion
and tension
and hopeful
realization
that were singular
just a moment before.
a simple word
fills a need
inside a soul
that sometimes bleeds
across the page
for crying eyes to perceive
like darkness
wandering toward
light
that just might
be the very thing
that saves your life.
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