The Idea
Information flows from one edge to another,
Working along the black marks of monotony.
On and on the lines converge and diverge,
Senseless and directionless.
The strokes slowly give rise to a shape,
That of a very familiar being.
From the depths of the deep blue,
Forms a fragile brain.
But this brain has been decayed,
Hollowed out without a purpose.
As time marches on to its own beat,
It leaves all essence behind.
Death catches a glimpse of this thing,
Eyeing the rotting flesh with gluttony.
Darkness starts creeping into frame,
Ready to consume all.
Just when death holds out its fingers,
Comes a glimpse of light.
Caged under the dense black lines,
It flickers and fumbles..
It starts to spread far and wide,
Giving life to everything around it.
Unclogging the once blocked lines,
The idea thrives.
Image:
Collection of the University of Arizona Museum of Art, Tuscan; Gift of Edward Joseph Gallagher, Jr.
