Lines

Lines crease our faces and

wrinkle our land and 

concrete our building and

sometimes our thought,

but mostly they allow us to

pull in like belly and 

marshal like troop, and

colour like child and

believe like 

there’s nothing could stop us

from paining and draining 

and explaining our words.

And if lines do mark faces,

remind me oh dearly, my

mindful dear, my

treasurable soul,

how the lines of our voices will 

always be young;

how the lines of our voices will

always be sang;

how the lines of our voices will

never be wrong.

And in everything we said and

everything we did,

how the lines of our life 

we wrote that together 

were quite the

truest lines

we

ever

did 

read.

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