Lines on paper deftly trace these words I write about a face.

Like highway lines that guide our way, we queue up, for another day.

Line up for our daily bread, lines of music in our head.


Power lines to drive our way, down the Internet highway.

Lines of light across my fence, and layers of paint to heal the rents.

No surgery or cream can erase, the lines of time, on a face


They are etched in the Universe.


Copyright 1998 © Ronald W. Hull



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