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

Coloured mask.

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,

Switching allegiances

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?

Perhaps nowhere

But within the expanse of our boundless self

Containing nothing but the infinite.