The Line

The Line

like a tune in your head
that cannot be heard
that fades away when you listen

like spider silk
glimpsed as it drifts
unanchored and aimlessly glistening

like a bright curl of metallic thread
after the fabric has shredded
and it is freed from the pattern

like the arc of light
when a star falls at night
but the rest of its path is hidden

like the travelling dot of fire
between a flame and explosive desire
when the fuse is just a segment

like the curving words never read
and the things that never got said
but they hum along your nerves in searing fragments

like patterns in the air
that are not really there
just the glowing afterburn of a party sparkler

like certainty amid complex confusion
like faith when all is illusion
comes a vision of the one true line

Edith Speers