April 13, 2012
#16 Magic – plenty
The magic of plenty, too many
voices that overlap a constant.
There’s too much left behind to clean
or maybe there is wisdom in layers.
I never belonged anywhere and
maybe I never will. It’s just anonymity
of expressions, a masquerade of invitees
in the colours of zebra. I remain an
infant of circumstances, shadows grow
darker every sunrise, pulling my boundaries.
Maybe I never will see the exact.
voices that overlap a constant.
There’s too much left behind to clean
or maybe there is wisdom in layers.
I never belonged anywhere and
maybe I never will. It’s just anonymity
of expressions, a masquerade of invitees
in the colours of zebra. I remain an
infant of circumstances, shadows grow
darker every sunrise, pulling my boundaries.
Maybe I never will see the exact.
