In cursive fluidity
Pens paint a mosaic
Of Letters
Without pre-meditation
We end the point
Period.
The period is the muzzle
The captor of free thought
The prison of prose
We should be damned
To be dammed
Behind a wall of dots
A river of ebony
Impregnates the mind
Our child of everything
And nothing
A shadow bulges
Within the infested tumor
One-thoused buzzing beatles carry
An idealist's disease
The water breaks
A million thought-up thoughts
Preemptive crosswords to cross
Smear and blend
Into one melted mass
Always wondered, always thought
If periods were to perish
If points concieved remained unmade
How dreadful, how beautiful
The black chaos would consume
The blank canvas of free thought |