Sounds mingle so distantly,
catch circles like flame-flutters
on waves coring the pebble of being
–
Sat on the brink of its stream,
eternally wishing-
in what cannot be had
–
Dissolving its moulds
and never its borders,
–
The frontier of self
exiled from its atrial home,
raised in the flux identity
of Nation’s blind refuge
–
stalks on a Juggernaut falter line
in the migration of ourselves;
the molten blood quakes
to disperse its silt of skin
–
One foot misguided by its other
One mind misaligned by another,
–
Along parched lips of a dry river bank
in the aimless taste of our stare,
–
with the coining of currency,
we forget kindness and sit,
sat by fenced exchanges of heart,
on the septum of difference;
an empty acre chamber floods
in the muted nature of one man,
–
listening for the other side of this wall,
where a curtain of sheets patterns
honeycombed, the lattice hive of life
–
And the songs of children are birds
in flight of the voice calling for himself.
