(or ‘luke’)

My poem, or whatever you want to call it, begins with a blank followed by a dot, a beautiful singularly perfect dot, sitting all alone before me on the page, yet, joined now by a companion dot, then another and another and so on, until the first letter is formed…..

bringing to this wooden page, the beginning of an idea, a thought, some information that finds registration in my formation, now carried along on timeless neuro pathways, transmuting their signals in the hypothalamus to chemical, conduit* to the pituitary, flooding now as they are want to do, my impressive story pathways, fixing their addiction in all of my 50 trillion cells ( give or take a few trillion) in my toes, my feet, my legs, my teeth, my arms and head, my chest and my cheeks, my everything, the very sinew of bone, atom and peculiar particle…..

and as it slowly ….now….realises itself, that is as the aforementioned letter slowly realises itself, I begin to realise that the letter, the dot, the very blank on the page is everything I wanted to say in the first place.

*french pronunciation

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