Marks of an Age


My life is a dot, and life itself a blank page.
I am but a small mark, spawned from the mark maker.
A small dot here, beside a line there.
Created as an accident perhaps?
One the Mark Maker doesn't notice.
Becoming creative with interlacing trace.
Oh what a clever Mark Maker.

Mark Maker, Mark Maker,keeper of the pen.
Make a dot for me, and none but me.

Marked bold are the animals, marked light lay the land.
Moving marks bring air, marked shimmering is sand.
Marking high for the trees, marks low for the well.
Marks of color make a sky, and still a dot remains alone.

Mark Maker, Mark Maker, keeper of the pen.
Make a dot for me, and none but me.

Look around at the trace, the lines and the weave.
Seeing up close the dark circles, and high high trees.
Search as i may search as i might, find a dot i have not.
For as far as I see, none is in sight.
I have been low, high,and diagonal even.
The Mark Maker doesn't respond to a dot, to small to be noticed.
An accident of art, upon a large page.

Oh Mark Maker, Mark Maker, keeper of the pen.
I am a lone dot, make another for me?

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