The mistake inside the lines…

Or perhaps more the blunder of birth, the errors between the margins

That are crossed out, erased and deleted with anticipated glee.

Like a master Historian paid by the winner to paint the pretender to the crown

As the Devil incarnate and the cause of all Humanity’s woes.

Any good they may have done assigned to someone else,

The credit of a lifetimes work expunged and made worthless.

The error between the margins, the deviation of the norm

Of the designated mechanical drive that makes the worker Bee

Perform without question what The Queen desires, the error

Of putting your arms above your head, showing the scars and letting the

Bullets rip you apart by friendly fire.

Would I prefer perfection?

The well worked out strand of a letter, typed so well that everybody exclaims

How marvellous it must be to be you, so perfect, so untouched by the role,

The madness

In your head

Or

To continue being entranced by the error between the margins,

The unconscious desire in which to show the wrong that you eradicate with a pen

And the stab of a voice that shouts loudest

That the life you lead is so faultless, unspoiled, unflawed

And

That there is no error for margins.

 

Ian D. Hall 2014.