The drawing pen
Has pointed out
The places for correction
As the third eye smiles
Into the ebony and the ivory
Of life’s past reflections
I could not throw a rope
Over fourteen years
Or one hundred and twenty thousand hours
The words never could be
Stretched out so far
Not with any certainty
Yet what is done is done
What was said has been said
No turning back
This writer is not for turning
Sometimes
Not even for starting out
But the job is done
The stones are thrown
Love’s potions have been devoured
All that is left is the setting
The fonts and the spaces
The essences of the meaning
Which another man
May well have explained
Altogether differently
