My hands above my head,
I grasp for purpose,
and pull the Sun to my chest.
Circles become arbitrary.
Squares, the cousins of
rectangles are discredited as
man-made. That's why metaphors
known as squares are seen as
vulnerable shapes in a misunderstood spectrum.
They are dotted lines
dependent on right angles,
left ashtray to explain anomalies.
So for order we justify lines.
We contain music within them.
Until, of course, the Holy Ghost
is found. Because that strike
against the canvas is thought
to be premeditated.
But that isn't human nature.
That isn't God.
It will only become recorded
notes on a page.
It's retrospect.
A future remembrance of the past.
It's the Sun in your heart,
knowing that containing that
kind of energy is hazardous
to your health.