ONE

In the end and in the beginning
Time of two sides but one line
Such lines intersect many times
Some run together, others by side
Rare are the ones which make cords
Of so many lines crossing as before
A cord of three strands holds fast
The single threads interweave
Canvas made of solitary things
Each necessary, some important
Each independent, all unified
Yet there are some, rarer still
That once crossed create anew
Not two strands or even a rope
Rather something mysterious
A new thing not defined
At the crossroads and at the meet
Two beings cross, can no one see
The self weave they stitch
The portrait they create

Dt

P.s. This poem is... different than any other I have made.