Perhaps a stone throw away
Are our children
In Old age

Remembering
All the times I had fun
Studying the times when I didn't

Flown through
Turbulence
Of glass-blown skies

Writers are the purveyors
Of their souls
Understanding their colors
Working by the working week
Governed by the hour hands
Watching
For juicy content
Claiming the fruits of their deeds

Following the warmth
Of my heart
Weighed down by
Bearing the sadness
Blood runs deep in these arteries
Parting with myself
Becomes easier day by day

It's a quaint feeling
Sitting by the fire
History forms underneath
Even
An oleaginous oil lamp
Dust dwells
Like brittle begonias
In the garden
Mapping
Out interests
Proof of theories
All leading to
Communicating secrets
Of enlightenment
By hiding in the light
Of the crystal clerisy
Away from the livid lies
Lividly lies
The fire and blood
That accompanied our stories
Unable to shed light on
Neo-classicism's darkest hours
Color became a question of chance
And in the end of race
There was only red

Love opens doors
Moving to and fro
Swinging innocently

What does it mean to be human?
Does it mean that your body is flesh and bone?
My body is made of plastic.
What are you made of?
What makes a person whole?
Is it fulfillment? Happiness? Soul?
Whatever the case, I am not whole.
Are you?
Are humans intelligent or ignorant?
I am both.
Which one are you?
Are humans kind or wicked?
I do not know which one I am.
Do you know?
Do humans get to choose who they are?
I have tried to mould myself as best I can, into the person I want to be
Have you?
Are you human?
I am, decidedly, not human.
I am that which I do not know of
I am that which I do not wish to discover
I hope never to know who I am.
Who are you?