My eyes study my drawing,
Laying simply on the white paper in front of me,
Pouring over the intersecting lines,
Connecting corners,
And overlapping connections.
Each line is only a representative,
Suspecting to show so much more,
Supposedly being the guide 
Of the fourth dimension.
These simply inked lines could be the key,
A map of something beyond our realm,
Guiding us to what creates us.
It could prove that we are shadows,
Manipulated by the dimensions above us.
It could be time, aliens,
Maybe something too big for us to fathom.
The dimension could be anything;
It could prove a thought-up theory,
Or dismantle a careful idea.
My eyes study my drawing:
A model,
A tesseract,
Something that could be uncannily correct,
Or so tremendously wrong,
Both ways withholding
A river of theories and possibilities.