Between the Lines

Each story starts

with just two lines,

in pink

inked

on a stick;

developing an image

in the dark

of mother’s crib —

where spiritual is present

as the body,

formed of flesh,

hides

future sight

from vision

’til it stretches, thin, the mesh —

&

through the window pane,

we fall

like Alice

down the hole,

to chapters

that were written

before eyes

covered

our souls.

Purpose pens the plots,

each path,

(the author

yields free-will

in every choice

between the lines:

heartbeat

to limb leads

still).

’Til deja vu,

a bookmarked page,

illustrates

what’s been,

and destiny

reads right to left,

beginning

from the end.