Unknown Lines

There was an old bundle of paper with random

sketches and lines drawn here and there, that I had

never attempted to open and see

and now they lay open in front of me, scattered

by an inevitable wind.

They refused to bear my deliberate blindness. 

I held  them in fear, picked one and read the lines

drawn, they crossed each other at the ends and

formed a vague hastily drawn enclosed figure.

The second sheet repeated the same figure with an

addition of some more mess of lines fitting inside

the enclosure.

The same pattern continued, the

more the mess of lines inscribed within thickened

the more thin the boundaries appeared.

The forces of perception and the pull of the

unperceived held tight.

Shutting my eyes from the

web of lines only opened a huge blank page .

“Good Lord!”, I cried for mercy.

My voice was being muted, my eyes growing dim

under the light of the massive blankness.

Nothing made sense any longer, no truth remained,

all sin and all goodness seemed perfectly within

reach.

The walls were crumbling, some unknown touch had

surfaced their fear, which had been cemented upon,

and all that eventually remained of them was their

unburnt ashes.

In that unfamiliar earth - my very own land - that I

had laboured to life, I knew not, remember not what

had once been true.