The story teller writes For a naked character On a bare stage. The one character, One line play. Profound, all encompassing; A brief run, But a blockbuster With opening nights In all the capital cities.
The visualist Could use one brush stroke, One lump of unmolded clay, An unchiseled stone, Weathered driftwood Or a piece of glass To display in the great museums For our interpretation Of the exposed truth.
One note could orchestrate On string, wind or skin, And the composition would be complete. The maestro could bow and walk; No encore could repeat.
I want one line of verse To embelish my yearnings; To explain the cosmos, The meaning and crux Of this place, Including us.