Â
While the world is meditating I sit cross-legged in the smell of home and look up into the drag I took of death diffuse into the ambience when shyly inspiration comes out of its hiding and pierces through my pale-ish skin drawing blood with which I write a primal verse onto stone pavement Muse guiding me and showing me
my North.
My life’s draft
designed globally,
my mind
engineered internationally,
I catch splinters of home everywhere I go.
Anxiety rising like Atlantic tide
when you tried to make me
83 million.
If Europe is Zeus’ disobedient daughter
why would I
let myself be governed by a man’s 19th century desk invention
living off collective remembrance of war?