Lines

I adore them, how they offer landing for our thoughts. Though, every now and then, a word or two shimmies to the end to dive off into the great unknown with olympic-like alacrity and style. When they leap, their form is impeccable, deserving a 10 at best, a 9.5 at least. Such prowess belies any release they seek from the scaffolding of our thoughts; that such lines may have kept them tethered too long or too strong. College-ruled or wide, there isn't much room for ad-libbing our way to tomorrow. Perfunctory compositions are what these runaway thoughts, these renegade freedom-seekers, leave behind. To where do they escape? Is it really true, these rumors of line-free lands, where meanings consort freely and arbitrarily with forms? Where forethoughts laze on swan-shaped tubes in swimming pools, with a margarita in one hand and haikus in the other? The afterthoughts reign. Your conclusions feign. Any semblance of solidity would immediately break into contagious laughter. So what then do we do with these lines? Twist them into poodles and giraffes to sell at fairs? Fish for the avant-garde? I suppose until we know what to do with them, these persistent and pervasive lines, we keep springboarding our way towards congregations singing hallelujiah, and the playgrounds in our own backyards.