THE ENDS have met.
The lines have crossed
and the curves are now bent
into perfect contours.
Rough drafts then, faced
the sternness of an eraser.
Uneven strokes were leveled,
monotonous lines broken.
Once void of ‘images,’
the paper bore solid lines
of base and structure
lasting four years
or more.
Pencils down.
Smears of lead etched
on the parchment-scape
of some master plan.
The thought has ceased to become.
The intricate design has
breathed the brainchild in.
The hand anxiously craves
to reap the edifice, to rise
from the raw silhouette.
Agnes Diana Ruth S. Bodado
