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My line I can not stand alone but I can lie alone I do not know of any one who will carry me without issue my exceptions project an unworthwhile effort my legs buckle I have no position to plea I am my own horizon in figure and actuality I have nothing to offer to any substantial other my thinking eschewed by feelings dismissed I am not defined in lines by a world without dimensions I am singular, an unknown point no line can connect the substrates of my all no redemption can ever reclaim me I only cultivate soil where my ashes return to lie in the dirt in line with the rest no marker, no memory, nothing to mourn I can never be what I am not I am a line dispersed into absolutely nothing |
Additional Notes:
the last drivel of my line
This Poem was Critiqued By: Tony P Spicuglia On Date: 2015-10-04 19:54:49
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 1.00000
Medard, Your analogy is not wasted on me. The concept of a line, (lifeline et al), of no width or depth, simply length- in describing the feelings of aloneness, or the epitaph of a life come and gone is extraordinary.
The temporalness of both the disconnection and the resolve of eternity, is a powerful vision. I say that to ascribe to the writer the vision, and not tarry on a substantive image.
I want to grab the line, and yank it, but not having the necessary information as to the creative inspiration, it might be yanking at a metaphor, or a heart. The heart is so much more substantive than a metaphor.
Well Done Medard, well done.