This is neither about the ‘why’ nor the ‘x’,
Tho my birth was a surd to be solved.
Right from the cross multiplication,
Then unto the addition, and later, the subtraction,
I became a product of their division,
An answer to the question of words and actions.
My mother, the source of this poetry!
She wished to birth a plus, not a minus
When she became the denominator
And her better half’s ‘1’, the numerator.
One count at every thrust of time,
A whole being in number must be born.
So, evens and not odds must be borne
On even the grunts as the counts of rocks
Must match the demands of the equation.
Then the parallel lines were drawn up at 45,
Flexed at the vertices to pull out in a file
That greater than or equal to life.
Thus, i was reeled into a tearing bridge of unknowns.
But the question was whether still
All the parameters were complete
To make for the answer deplete.
I was born a solution to an incessant commotion.
For the ‘xx’ was the mode of the lost median, ‘xy’!
My plight started from word problems
To yet more unsolved surds of high statistics.
I was caught up in simultaneous bridges,
Left standing on a path of quadratic ridges.
Save me! Save me!
My shouts only hit the angle of inclination,
Never above the graph’s upper quadrant.
So, I bore the wall up the angle of elevation.
My birth, my greatest poetry,
My life, the greatest puzzle I must solve.
Right at the vertex of these lines of symmetry,
I hope the almighty formulae shears the curve.
© Ben James
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