Off my mark, fly.

for the Tenth Daughter of Memory (Fear of Writing).

The thing I once knew
about penmanship
blows my mind.
It's the curlycues, they're
unallowed, but look around;
is originality lauded? Stay
between the lines. I stretch out
in my subterranean hideaway,
here I weave a construction of
pebbles and dominoes because
somehow it all means something
to me.
Stop me if you've heard this;
somewhere someone
other
must be having these same
fucked up thoughts.
Who's/what's making this stuff up,
how's it getting in my head?
A piece of string placed over the top
of a pair of dice
number 9
reminds me of the interconnectivity
of all organisms in this world
and the next.
I am living in a fantasy world;
as I shift the dust from the
floor of my sanctum
leaving arcane scratchings,
do the hidden meanings
of the sacrosanct text ebb
from known dimensions
only to re-emerge
...elsewhere?