What.

Each meaningless line,
inherently out of context, out of time,
just marks on a page,
only named when needed;
given a value defined by desperate minds,
but worthless absent an observer.

Sometimes,
I can’t see past the scratches,
words I know,
that know me,
look strange and uncalled for;
a line of ships off a virgin shore,
hoisting unfamiliar flags,
smoke billowing from their cannons.

I defend myself with anger,
taking from it that worthlessness,
as if I owned it all along,
falling on that sword.
Surely, the word will make sense in time,
I’ll recognize it;
it, me.

Like crossed eyes finding their place,
I’ll remember its name,
where it came from,
what it is.

Surely,

what.