So, what is my life:

my existence, being there --


plus my history.

~
You are
the river that runs
beneath this city.

You lend
the beautiful but empty
buildings a beating heart.

And the buildings were essential.

They were a part
of the lives unfolding
in their shadows.

Sometimes it
almost seems like
they are listening.

I'm sinking inside them.

Tell me a story
about an outgoing road,
the house where you grew up
near the Sea of Azov.

I think
I flew there once.

The birds
that perch inside my chest
sing loud, sing soft.

Maybe they
will sing again for us
tomorrow.
~

The grace of the divine speaks itself into existence
As we wash our clothes, mourn the past, and dine,
As we close our eyes and listen.

The truth finds its thereabouts
And reminds itself again
That nothing is meant to last—
The restless mind disrupts.

Do not ask me who I am
Ask me why I am
For that will give me peace
An affirmation of my existence
Amongst the many others God created
A lamb to the slaughter?
who understands the sacrifice she is going to be  put up for and makes peace with it
A clown in a Circus?
One who's duality knows no bounds
A looming shadow?
One with a beating heart
A crow amongst the doves?
Shrewd and menacing
A grasshopper in an ants colony?
Who understands life best in the depth of it's ruins

Mankind is a mosaic
of everything they have done in their existence;
insignificant if the pieces cease
to fit against each other,
all intertwined into one melancholic,
woe-filled work of art.