We wear our race like a heavy cloak
Painting our skins with uncomfortable ideas.
We wear our gender like lead boots,
Stumbling in discomfort proclaimed as ease.
We wear our sexuality like a brightly
Our religion and politics
We wear as indomitable rightness.
Our point of view
Is an impenetrable stone castle
Fortified until the last soldier is killed.
Our countries are emblems
For which many will die.
So many are the dividing lines,
The fractious ideas,
For we are tribes
Of a broken mind,
Like a fickle tide forgetting the moon,
Changing our image to suit,
Gritting our teeth
In gripped identity
Held as a fist
Shaken at the world.
Are you for or against?
⁃ the what does not matter
In this politics of imagery.
Is it possible we are mistaken
In our hell-bent
Desperation to be somebody?
Could we be
Loose in all the periphery
Of our difference?
Could we see that we one in our being
And the rest is but a jumble of ideas
To wear, not for the war of it
But for the fun of it.
Where is even rightness in this?
But within the expanse of our boundless self
Containing nothing but the infinite.