A blank sheet of paper

    Awaits to be filled;

Marks, unto letters;

    Words, to be spilled.


Lines, run to margins,

   To keep them entailed:

Thoughts put on paper,

    Potential, trammelled.


Like gardens that taper

    From fresh fallowed fields,

Thoughts are the crops,

    The actual, revealed.


First, from the chaos,

    Flux fits appeal;

Chaos and order


Both the real deal.


Man, O map maker,

    potential unveils,

semantics by syntax,

    concordant in zeal.


Man, a map maker,

    In words He dispels

The chaos by order

    And fixed ritual;


Potential eventual,

    New Knowledge is real.

The real seals the deal:

    Ostensibly, weal.



©2013, Marvin Welborn

18 December 2013; revised 17 June 2014.

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