Pour all into bowl
then separate and cull
joy from sorrow
reality from fiction
peas from carrots
outline a writhing boarder
and then declare
These are here,
and those are there!
no more enclaves
assimilation
or gaps of no-man's land
from now on
clean cut
aesthetic
well defined
a beacon of chiseled hope
for the sick, the weary
the poor
so they may flock into your chapel
amass, wet eyed, to learn
the essence of humanity
never again to be confused
never to succumb to madness
never to grow old

Woman
You are under
my skin
between the cracks
that even the world
cannot squeeze through
And your words
are venom
their weight, like the world
too heavy to bear
Still they ricochet
from within my walls
tearing through me like lightning
ice cold, and red hot
piercing,  yet dull
empty, and full to the brim
with truth woven out of
loose threads
and patched with
false assumptions
on the things that I am
even though I am not
and the things that I hope
to become

It is as if you
hang on a key-chain
deep inside my pocket
I carry you for years
not having the slightest of clues
how you actually look like

-
I am a tourist
in a crowd of pilgrims
picking up pebbles and broken glass
from the winding trodden road.
Fallacy and emptiness
are heavy in my pockets
hinting that i face
the center of gravity,
a prolonged paralysis,
and that the bounties of the journey
are beyond the reach
of those who climb.
Perhaps,
I just lay down for a moment
spread my hands across the ground,
and latch onto the shadows of the passersby.
I wonder
if I hold on strong enough
I just might
fall into the sky
-