A function has its limits
at almost every value, every point of its existence
unless it's broken or disjointed
flawed
but still a function
as it nears zero from the positives it shoots sky-high
it reaches 12 and now it's flat-lined
a missile homing in
then it comes up from the shady negative side
creeps up to zero somewhere near -3
gains speed and hits a straightaway
pieces explode outward and create a messy gridline
on which the dots can be connected
no matter what they're made of
but both beams, though they hit, halt dead
at the black wall of y's straight backbone
defiant of the high-soaring angels, the low-swooping demons
still the figure won't topple
though it's shot from right and left
it's not trapped under one gunpoint
it has learned the hard way to bear it
knows that to be free, it must withstand it
because it's broken, its limit ceases to exist
free to stretch to heaven or to hell
but always at a price.
*Inspired by the "love of a subject" prompt
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