not a poem

the point where two lines meet,
touch, kiss,
in plain blank space
and cut from there,
it is not the point of destruction,
demise, death;
it is the point of life,
living, rebirth.

when touched, at a certain point
of their length
two lines cut each other;
one part moves forward
and the other part stays behind.

that’s how we humans are,
I guess.
we slide on the white space
in a constant state of being
until we get touched…
then we get cut
and move from there.

the process goes on…
and every time it happens
we evolve, we change,
we morph into becoming;
Just as a line when cut,
we get shorter.
shorter doesn’t mean inferior.

after the cut–
after the cut
we emerge lighter, stronger;
after the unneeded parts
have been removed–
dots, implanted on us by other selves,
we emerge purer, wiser.
and as we approach old age-
as we approach death
we end up as points, not lines

after all, every line
at some point, started as a point.
as points we began, when we began;
as lines we lived, as long as we did;
and as points we end;

that’s how we grow.
by getting shorter and shorter
until we become whole again.

(not sure if this counts as poetry)


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