Child of Symbols.

Sometimes I see a pattern,
Like a systems spacing,
But structure needs,
Art, like sensual passion,
To fill the blank spaces,
On the sheet,

I see a counted measure,
That inflection does proceed,
To sentence every syllable,
To a sentence it does, best heed.

To contain a rising anthem,
Like a chrysanthemums bloom, reprieved,
But in each space, I place each letter,
For it to better seed,

The action beneath the thought,
Behind the meaning,
Embellished in word,
To spur the steed that’s racing,
Fast as synapses,
Down declining curves,

To rise a verb,
Lift to a point,
Where perspective,
Is conceived,
To birth a Child of Symbols,
In the anatomy,
Of our speech.


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