I shake off the lines that led me to this point,
and, in the aftermath, I feel the smoothness of the surface of myself,
whilst considering whether I really know where the point is.
Is it at the sharp tip of my artist’s B pencil?
Is it at the tip of my Hubby’s Roman beak?
Is it at a dot marking a particular milestone in my forty-nine years of living?
Which point exactly am I realigning myself up for?
And why, when the lines in my skin, are the point of my everything,
do I stand here, pathetically shaking them off?
I do a recall of the lines.
And, now I stand here,
to be shrivelled back into existence.
Copyright owned by Jay Cool, August, 2019