Lines (Part 3) Pierce the lens, So I know You know. Even left handed I trace the shape Of your color.Fill the shadow Of your song. I frame your face in the glass of my one good eye, where I picture you almost picturing me.
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Lines (Part 2) They built the lines measured, mapped, and marked— straight as days are long. But roots whisper old songs and bones remember wind. The sky was never a ceiling. So we stretch— bend where they said “stand,” rise where they set weight. The earth does not ask permission. Frames splinter, grids crack, yet the sun still warms what grows beyond them.
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The Line It is not the wind that moves, not the earth that shifts, not the river breaking its banks. It is the line. Straight, unyielding, though the ground beneath it sways. It does not ask if the hill is steep, if the night is long, if the body bends under its weight. It does not pause for a voice behind it, the call of a soft chair, the hush of a closing door. It is only forward. And forward is the only path it knows.
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