Acute

Acute

In geometry’s quiet gaze, an angle sharp,
Less than ninety, keen and bright,
It points to corners where lines embark,
A sliver of truth in pure light.

Acute is also the mind’s keen edge,
When thoughts arrive like needle’s thread,
Piercing fog, a sober pledge,
To see the world with clarity unshed.

And in the body, an ache so keen,
A sting that flares, a sudden bite,
Yet even pain can be serene,
If met with calm and measured light.

So let us cherish the acute—
The pointed, the precise, the true—
For in its focus we imbibe
A glimpse of what is sharp and new.