A string of life long, just as long as I’ve lived,
A spaghetti of fate, Ran through pasta sauce spilt,
Looking for something, or someone, for meaning and wonder,
A lengthy line scrawled on the aged face of time,
A line lost alone, confident in design.
No longer a line, but a half of much more,
I’m the left to a right, the black to a white, the dark to a light, the day to a night, the end to the sight,
(Photo – Eli Woodbine, Budapest, 2015)