Flipping through a bundle
of identical sheets
I realise there is no difference between us

I, like the sheets
Hover the earth with no specific goal
Waiting for someone to scribble
an endorsement

But no-one comes
Because I am the paper and the ink
My experiences are my art
freely given materials

With which to bless,  beautify and build

And the people who are extensions of you breathe monoxide and speak with the sound of shrewd drills. I can't help but hear your voice through their wreckage.