life, poetry, thoughts, Uncategorized

The math of our path

She can follow the winding of wayward paths

She can follow it until she forgets the math

Of the pattern of a swollen universe

It’s scientific, it’s spiritual, it’s her only worth

And without her fingers she cannot count

Without her hands she cannot surmount

The way of roads she moves toward

She grasps onto rock, moving forward

One, two, three… and four

Her hands, her beaten hands are of legend and lore

I smile when I see the drying blood

The memories of my mind come back in a flood


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