The Grid

All is gridded, boxed and lidded, ail
Labelled then worshipped as truth -
A truth fixed
A truth deduced.

And the symbols -
The symbols are a language
Known to the privileged few
But cold, cold, a pure pale blue.

And you too have to freeze the blood,
Put the feeling on hold,
Descend  into that pond
Of signs and signals and paradigms. 

There is a formula for it all -
One clever, tangible and fine,
One that emits an endless line,
One so sharp you can slice your palm,
But lop off a pie or 2, an algorithm,
And it won't feel,    
Can't feel, 
You  the master who  made it
Stand  up and breathe.
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