The human a needle,

and the patterns we sow begin

hasty,

confused,

trembling.

And as we grow older, the weave becomes

steady,

rhythmic,

and a pattern emerges from the ashes of our failed attempts.

We launch ourselves into this design,

this ancient art, rediscovered by the contemporary child.

Our application becomes non-discriminatory,

and even stories,

begin to conform,

to this aesthetic sense of order.

Each day is molded into this pattern, seeking sanctuary

in the blend of daily recreation.

But in the evolution of our ideals,

we often forget

the wavering line

is no less beautiful

than the pattern of

symmetry.