Shrivelled

red leaf

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,

pointedly waiting

to be shrivelled back into existence.

 

Copyright owned by Jay Cool, August, 2019

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