Observatorial

I am not an observation

         I’m not a situation

I’ve at times been a casualty

         But never the root of causality

I am not some speck of data dots

Splattered on a page, the type

You’d find deconstructed upon a grid

I’m not some analysis

A psychiatrist so easily can gave

I’m not a problem

         Nor am I a solution

To which some might say

         Makes me a problem in a different way

I’m not some report

         With facts and figures

Presented to groups

         Or read by only one

I’m not some grade

         Used to measure

Indicating possibility

         And that dreadful word potential

I’m not an observation

         So easily dismissed

I’m not an observation

         So casually missed

I’m not an observation

I’m but a speck

A dot with no ends

A sum of all points, the point of a pen

A pattern, a trend if you choose to look, if you so desire to skew or to bend, finding one: a reflection, a stream, a light, a bulb, a token or a reassuring nod of approval, is not as difficult as you might pretend.

Not that it’s correct, not that it’s right

But if you simply look, you’ll never see; you’ll never comprehend what is awakened and what still sleeps.