Questions clear as the sunshine in May:
Our glasshouse on shaky footings was raised,
Yet the bedrock that sustains its frail grace
how is it not the same
some few paces away?
By virtue of what? Who is to say
that these currents coursing throughout our veins
is not held by much the same ropes and reins
in someone just like us,
just a stone's throw away?
Fate is the hand where feet first land.
Lines in the sand, abstractly planned
by the right of soil,
foils like water on oil.
From poles of the same height
hang rags of the same size
but stained in different ways.
Doomed as a pawn at our first dawn.
Contracts in clot, randomly drawn
by the right of blood,
...pray by shrines made of mud
to gods of the same kind,
shaped by the same minds
only with different names.