The Mathematician


Although rough
Made it look
More precise calculations
Ended a bit off

Kept going
Drowning in ego
He wanted
To figure
This conundrum on his own
Madman that he was

Till it reached
It’s own tipping point
Bouncing off
Each other
Suddenly all became clear
Obvious really

About Ben Naga

The Spirit that graces me with its passing has no name and stems not from thoughts and words, though it gathers them up as it flows, but from feeling.

Posted on November 18, 2019, in Poetry and tagged , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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