Our story is the song of soul and though I often act
despite the dreams I’ve known
a seldom cross of intersecting thoughts
ingraining arbitrary cause
no child left ungutted
in a space called freedom
because what else is the movement of the mind if not the cold hand of an older sibling
beckoning in you with the long finger
in idle hall of ideology.
I am the opposing spaces,
antennae on the edge of thoughts feeling for freed’s fence,
then hurdle my gaze over.