Standing over there, they are drawing pictures of home, I wonder how that feels. I wonder if there is as scrambled an image as this Rorschach war chest hidden inside my head. hanging from hinges opened and closed far  too often, so weathered by indecision to feel firm in themselves. Draw for me those borders that make your sanctuary separate to mine, the differences have blurred. Faith is blind, it tests my trust in sight.

These are my crutches, drawn out conversations, longing for longevity. Wincing at silence, each declarative sentence sounds too much like goodbye, too much like dying light, my footing feels shy.

When the world hasn’t yet owned any shape, when so much of a formless noise surrounds me, so much of this, so much of that, the certainty of other people’s voices gives sustenance to ambiguity.

I will willingly unbuckled my prejudice to breathe. The tightness of a small world has a way of twisting my diaphragm, finite words are not of the kingdoms best suited to the tomorrow I believe in.

Speaking some sense of directions for the auditorium of speculative spectators paints me with lovely strokes of certainty and it make me believe there version of my events. Their rhetoric is a double edged sword that will not hesitate in cutting me loose from my pride, my falling lacks beauty and grace.