There’s a dark line running across the page.
Crossing the pure white that had been laid
By a paper machine on the factory stage.
There thousands alike were birthed, cut, and made,
Cut, made, laid and stayed
Laid flat to be displayed
Clean without a blemish there
Not a point for upon which to stare
Each a separate entity, yet birthed the same
Birthed the same yet each granted a different name
Given to them what then lived or died
Lived or died or given granted promise tried
To separate from the package wrapped
Unaware of truth then there trapped
Yet found at end
They were not much different
From the common print as such
Could never be the case for change
And yet the line moved to rearrange
Itself to drive deeper with its stain
The ink spreads and tints the linen’s lean
Fibers stretched smooth, taunt, and clean

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