Monday, September 28, 1998

Story Of A Line

a thin line writhed with reverberation, yet straight, charcoal unfolding its story
so long ago, in the beginning it told, letters unknown
a doodle I presumed, but truly I knew, even then
like a sofer, fit to tell the story, I wrote, a scroll of that becoming known
a journey of edges with pages upon pages, with holes ripped as I worked
diligently, fingers gripping and telling, the line falling through
because, just because, it was true to do
another page and again, another page added to the story
the only word a line, the whole story of a line
jagged, pressed hard, the point broke, shattering the tip of the tool
charged to tell the story, the whole story of a line, grey-black
reddish crayons adding to some places with the other hand, colors telling truth
sometimes it wound around lightly, in inner places wandering
in one and more, corners and other spaces, fallen fallen over the edge
lifted, drifted, hovering over and hiding under the page of writing, the tool
in my hand, time for decision - was it the end? time to stop with this doodle?
the tool paused, lifted and set down upon the paper, another page
time after time, and always faithful to the truth
to the the story of a line, the line as I saw it, from somewhere beyond yet within
the boundaries, beyond the boundaries to the end, coming in
from beyond the limit of my mind so many pages, one after another
not counting, I wrote and cried, reeling and feeling the pain in the story
of this line lonely and wandering, jagged and broken, so hurt, so alone
I had to end the story, the story of this line of letters unknown
collecting in holes torn through pages upon pages of paper
the line to the last page came, the last page I would tell, broken and shattered
forsaken and left to die, the line fell, like a teardrop from my eye
simply, into peace ...


story originally written as a little girl with a line before I could read and write

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