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October 1, 2009

Like the black Death, I am alive.

I am everywhere, inside the air

and outside the heart.

Stem cells in hand, I place my self in your shoes.

Through your looking glasses, I can see what you feel,

But I do not feel it, and sometimes I am simply not there.


In a distant land, a mirror-imaged Muslim man on a Christian cross hangs in the balance-

his body oily and blood-drenched from the sweat of a war,

as I wipe the sweat from my brow in my studio.

We are nothing alike.

I think to myself as the crescent moon sinks below the stars to pray;

What did the Goths do “when in Rome”?


Unfettered souls don’t merely clash; they collide.

But as order rises from the blunt ashes of chaos,

so too does hope spring forth eternally from our collective unconscious.

Though history often repeats itself, as when the wheel of time turns,

the broken axle bears endlessly leftward

and so our covered caravan retraces its imprints in a spiral.


My power left my reason dumbfounded,

scrambling charts for the truth.


From → Poetry

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