Illustration by Matthew Niel J. HebronaTHE 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

READ
Letter to my alma mater

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