Possibly, tired of game-spotting, dotting and dashing,
Painter-Creator had a longing for lines, elegantly
unbroken.
Pure without rendezvous, their unrequited love eternally
unspoken.
``A change from Cheetah with his collection of marks
All nature needs is a set of stripes - symbolic of
healing
forever,
And I`ll lay them all on you, Monsieur Zebra!"
Roguishly, almost, that creature
roams the wild, although wearing
rigour in the design of his hide.
Always imprisoned in black and white. Imperial parallel lines.
And, tamely, a convict looks out from the severest of
bars
Across his cell- window. ``Wish one were skew, I`d
escape
to the stars!"
L and double ll, the word itself contains the concept -
line-like letters, side by side. Though is it para-lell or
-llel? Goodness, I forget!
La-di-da, linguistic laws! You are laboriously legalistic.
Let`s have gentle guidelines, almost-parallels, which
have the grace to bend.
Every now and then, two fools, bent on comedy, find each other`s
antics
equally funny. ``Ha-ha, Clown, you`re ludicrous!" ``Nay,
Elf, merely
eccentric!" Jesters, unaware that the very laughter lines
on their faces are matched.
Lovers, ha! - on the other hand, keep a cool fixed distance apart,
initially. Then -
legit-and-intimate, approach a limit, and come to
lie closeclose together. Who can tell whether they form
one life, or two, parallel?
``Long ago, in Liverpool ... " my mother-in-law tells stories of
her boy, now my beloved.
``Look - these pointed iron railings are rare today."
Neat, spearlike, in a row. Vectors!
``Let`s turn these parallels into bullets! Para-shoot in
self-defence!" came the call
In the Wars, I and II. Weapons, not hedges, were needed in a hurry.
Indeed, the metal-melting worked. Line upon line, homely
fencing was ripped out
In sacrifice. Woeful women turned into widows, and a few
men, sta-sta-mmering victors!
Nowadays, well-organised fiery darts attack the family in more subtle
ways.
Newspapers no longer carry the cruellest lines of all.
Nailed with His back to us, it`s easy to forget, at
Easter, that thirty-ah! nine-ah! parallel strokes were part of the
torture.
Even a child playing choo-choo is fascinated by tracks
which
nevernever meet -
``Except at infinity" the sage adds, cryptically.
So, terrible lashes free us from selfish cells, forever.
Someone, sing of this escape from slavery. Guitar`s six
lines,
unplucked, lie
Silently parallel. Musicians! Wake up! Make those strings
meet, as
we dance 'til Eternity!
- Ysabel Perkins