Not Made, But Found
Pen to paper the ink is permanent
the stain unremovable
by advanced cleaning systems;
this page will never be the same again.
The line is inconsistent
it’s thicker in parts where the hand leans heavier
it’s definitely not geometric it even wiggles in bits
It doesn’t look like anything, it doesn’t make sense
It’s silly and indulgent, It’s just a bloody mess.
It’s freehand, it’s free and drawn by hand
By human fancy from a besotted eye
through the mind into the veins and bones and tendons
into the hand, down the pen and onto the page
Now disrupted by noisy mess of line and rhyme
that perfect page quiet and calm
Now a vessel, a material transported, exploited, exported
Perfection exists, it was there.