We are as names swallowed by the cold
Haunted with the vowels of our experience
We linger in the darkness only to
Decline in the human years of our fragility
* * *
The skies of the wintry sun don’t etch our figures
We are spiritual and temporary as bodies
Star-stuff in our molecules of enchanted matter
Our thoughts bleed universal truths repeating
* * *
Our genius and trials completely unrecognised
Invisible below our surface of privacy and guilt
The years do not succumb to heart-beats
They only accumulate like forgotten madness
* * *
We’ve become as samurai for private causes
Pet crusades, the things we cherish, the few people
The tribe which we associate our blood and water
The vulnerability of our highest aspirations
* * *
We profit from the belonging we create
That which we tell ourselves is significant or important
What we find beautiful is not uniqueness
But something far more superficial and primal
* * *
We are like dusk blowing in the light
Haunted by the framework of what we believed was real
We thirst for light along the paths
Feeble and shuttering, we long for something more.
Wuji Seshat 