Another one of these poems, the last for a while, but probably not the last forever.
On the page
In tidy little lines
Spell out their hidden secrets
To those who can read them
They are unchanging in their meaning, their shape
A comfort in our world, full of chaos.
When all else seems uncertain, numbers can be trusted.
Trusted to hang our lives upon them, to see things.
See things in an orderly fashion, something to plan lives around.
When all other things seem to fail, the numbers are a constant.
Yet even the trustworthiness of numbers has their own inner beauty.
The way they line up, different, but still the same.
Is that not something you can admire in them?
And from those patterns see something else entirely.
See how those numbers, patterns line up.
In their tidy rows and lines.
Forming a brand new shape.
Visible if you only
Look close and