Your name is my name
in that we both have one
containing letters stretched
over unrelated faces in time
until syllables are pulled from
intentions turned to antiques.

Does the reader see the labyrinth
each word holds to craft meaning
depending on what comes first
waiting for what happens next.

Searching for a pretty shape
the pattern to break a mold
set in stone before each writer
whittling away their minutes
minds blind to the situation
trying to hide its fearful symmetry;
each form crafted creates it’s own mold.