Pointed Ponderings
Day in, and day out, from the ripe old age of five,
I’ve take to sharp objects and whittled at their sides.
Lancing pristine white paper with brazen blue veins,
it was quite impossible for me to abstain.
Day in, and day out, from the egg to the cane,
with old age beaconing and more of the same.
Lancings lingering images on pages of fading memories...
perhaps they're dreams these blue traceries,
As impossible as it seems, impossible, and often strained?
I wonder would it have been best for me to simply have abstained?
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