It’s all scribbles;
Lines driving across a blank plane.
Crashing awkwardly together
With seemingly no logic or reason.
A storm of unique wills and wants,
One line haphazardly cleaving through another.
Now pull back,
Examine the image from another angle;
Could there be a pattern?
These lines are bolder.
These lines are drawn out faster,
Tipping the balance in a certain direction.
Yes. I see it now;
the center point is moving.
The nucleus of this amoeboid idea travels,
Like a balloon in a strong wind;
Devoid of intelligence,
But filled with intent.