Distinction was the aim,
With no two marks the same.
“Marks that had no name”, I said,
“There upon your paper tread.”
“No marks may over steer.
Patterns may appear,
But every mark should stand alone.
Symbolize no rag or bone.”
At first they would comply,
But then appeared a heart, an eye,
A skull, a rose, despite my cry.
Marks they’d stack and merge
Despite my steady urge
To limit their design,
Lines would intertwine.
“Breaking rules”, they’d chime,
“Art is this way defined!
Progress is so refined
When rules are so declined.”
“If what you say is true,
Then rules still rule your way,
Dictating all you do,
Your marks, and all your way.
As well, if art’s progression,
Requires renewed transgressions,
Then all art comes undone,
As you before you have begun.”
Cucumber Lodge 