The Poem of a Lunatic
I drew a line that would not bend—
it laughed and curled into a ring.
A square it was, or had been once,
before the circle taught it spring.
I found a triangle trapped within,
three voices sharp, all pointing out:
One cried ascend, one whispered cut,
one wept and wound itself in doubt.
The square stood firm, its angles proud—
it would not move, it could not yield.
But circles sang of higher forms,
of truths beyond the compass wheel’d.
So round I walked the stubborn frame,
with chalk and ash and blood and thread.
I danced its edge in perfect curve,
till even stone believed it bled.
The triangle flared and broke its cage,
its apex tearing through the seams—
and then the square, now pale and wide,
lay softened in the light of dreams.
A circle formed—no start, no end—
around what once was harsh and true.
And in its midst, the threefold flame
still flickered where the angles flew.
So mark me mad, and mark me wise:
to circle square, let triangle rise.
Northcoast Antiquarian 