self-indented

July 12, 2014

my writing smears as I go on –
a biological gift
that allows for reason
(or so it’s been said)
but requires
from the inflicted
shorter,
closer
lines.

sometimes these words
hop onto non-Euclidean space –
igniting a search for the metric
that defines how far
I’ve gone,
if I’ve made any
progress,
or if I’ve just ended up
back home.

square one is nice,
but running enthralls –
so we run and run,
and hope the crowd in our heads
cheers us on,
and feels the wind
against our bones,
but only the runner
yearns for home.

the end is nearer, clearer,
but my left hand
smears all.

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