we see more, that’s all

not-a-poetWhen people are busy filling in the gaps,
we are slow to move,
stare with savage intent,
at the interstices,
aching for meaning,
fondling with the fingers of our minds,
to sift through the Braille of what it all means.

Things are often in slow motion,
if not totally frozen,
if but long enough for us to suck the seed,
of meaning from it.
Be it a pencil,
or a cloud,
Animate or not,
breathing or lifeless,
we extract with biopsy precision,
enough to help you realise what you missed.

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