I’ve never understood the golden rings,
when the number five has always been
more like a hand lifted in
the expression of unarmed proof
or perhaps halt.
Two plus two or two times two,
the number of the perfect square
and easiest square root.
My mother used to use this as
the number of warning,
the signal that enough is enough
and it is too much.
The sign of the love triangle
or perhaps the perfect bridge,
since haven’t we all dealt with it
as part of growing up?
How many we have of eyes and ears, arms and legs.
The number of perfect symmetry.
The number of beauty to that extent,
but any engineer would tell you about
the inherent instability to this number.
It is unreliable. A myth of a digit.
Perhaps this is why it is how fingers
rise to indicate peace?
Everything is divisible by it.
Everything is composed of it.
And everyone knows how it feels:
end of the line
The Hopeful Wanderer on Halo E on Halo The Hopeful Wanderer on Halo thecheekyhousewife on The Puddle of Suck E on The Puddle of Suck
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