Scissors are just two knives and two round holes,
Something and nothing, joined to separate,
Opposing faces, each the other’s mate,
Two ends that thumbs and fingers seek as goals,
Two they avoid and that dismember wholes,
Round, looping lines and lines completely straight,
Means to life’s simple ends yet tempting fate,
Ends in themselves, like beauty, life and souls,
A Ding an sich that is for its own sake.
Yes, beauty, life and souls are scissors-like,
The nothing in the hole, the goals we seek,
Somehow entwined with substances that break
Apart, leave gaps and hurt till, grown obtuse,
We value scissors only for their use.
Another sonnet. I am probably the best sonneteer writing today but that isn’t saying much – most people wouldn’t know a sonnet even if it hit them on the head with a baseball bat.