It’s never easy meeting a fallen kindred spirit, their face reflecting your soul
For those who look
You can see the mirrored minutae of you
Often I feel they’re unseen, we all stuck looking for the reflection of our Facebook self.
A glossed fiction unfound in others unfounded in reality.
Still I see myself in the fleeting gloss of your lonely eye.
It like the an old friend who once looked upon me.
It’s been while since we’ve spoke,
I wonder… because if stigmatised truth or dearth of substance.
I feel it’s the subject, it turned an obscure ombre.
A minds regard of the quiet clandestine workings of a wandering eye.
And a relative conscious.
I read love poems of devotions and pure affection. They too like the gloss movies, a reality away from the compromises and warmth of daily love.
In fiction it vanquishes all, but I see it beaten by jealousy, pettiness and self pity.
A sacred pantomime we all dance to, I’ve found mine but still I wonder.
She used to be…
… but he’s not like that anymore.
I suppose we all think of the decisions we made or didn’t…
Unaware of their innate fate.
Your days where you’ve learned hard lessons; their impossibly unique circumstances.
The world then lead up to the fact,
and it still didn’t happen.
“The way I see it is all this race stuff is a social construction, an illusion used to divide and dominate.
If it’s constructed it’s made up by someone or some group, so we can choose to not believe it and perpetuate the lies.
Yes we’ll still and always be in the system but we can stop adding to the delusions it creates, delusions of worth, beauty and ability.
We having this conversation means that at the very least aware of it,
and at best we will start to pass our awareness to others,
slowly breaking the too long told narrative of race and worth.”
The sky ‘s a warm grey today.
I sit above it all in a leisurely replacement service.
Tupac’s lamenting his life to his unborn love.
I pass homes neglected and freshly built.
I do try to be a good person, but wonder…
– A friend once told me if I wonder I needn’t worry.
The Old Victorians hold witness to lives around and inside.
Again I wonder if I will ever be filled
with characters and stories
or a hushing quiet.
I see pools of sky blue, as the grey gives way.
I always wondered if rappers run out of lyrics and a painter water from their fountainous muse
Advice has always been the same, an unearthing of truth, a discovery of the preexisting, reforming it and presenting it anew
As a poet, artist or scientist we don’t discover but reflect our novel understanding of the All before us aloof to our existence …
and I see until the earth grows cold and dark no sooner will ink and paint