The crossword
is not born a puzzle,
it is but a template
yet filled as whole
Its pattern is born undetermined,
a fossil of a form,
pliable yet void of clues
to hint at the truth
of its undiscovered
internal code
It lives within a womb
alive yet bare-still
connected to the page
by an umbilical destiny
it's yet to claim as its own
A design in search of order
A destiny whose fate's determined
only by the characters etched by the
pencil's shade
The crossword
is not born a puzzle,
it is but a template
with desires all its own
Its every cell is born with a multitude of purpose
Its outline, a skeleton unable to communicate on its own
It searches for the perfect
words to imprint meaning,
that completes the voids crafted by space and time
It is alive, yet it will not know why
until its hollow frame is complete with a
perfect built in verse.
