The Early Side of the Wall

With sun in my eyes, a chalk between my fingers,
Scribbling on the gravelly surface
I was writing on the dark side of the wall.

But was I writing, 'coz I knew no language.
I knew no rules, I knew no letters.
All I knew was, I had a thought which can't get better.

I sketched a few lines, some straight and some not,
Some touched other lines but some did not
Some steered their way through the path between stones.
Some thought of climbing them up and go down.
Some got skewed; some leaped others and obscured them.

The little chalk was over as it couldn't go miles
Found no meaning of the white chalk lines.
As no one ever does, of pure chalk lines.
Words are written on silver books; with blood as ink.
Untaught hands making honest marks 'snot worth a think.

Rain came just then in solace on the face,
Rolled over the lines to wipe their grace.
I stood looking, powerless and lost,
On the same dark side of the wall.
It was the early side of the wall.

-A
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