It’s a peculiar race
of peculiar beings
not of god nor of beast,
just something betweening,
where the righteous eat cabbage
and where the sinners eat meats
and the dangerous ones,
they press send, not delete.
We stomp over stones
and toss in our beds
forever tops spinning
around in our heads-
the heads we hold high,
the heads that hang low
that move by the slightest
“goodbye,” or “hello-”
a race not content
to merely survive-
but it’s art we create
for our hearts to thrive
and to make us feel
we’re more than we are-
just train sets and potlucks
and zooming fast cars,
because, just perhaps,
though it’s hard to see
there’s something exquisite
just for us to be.