This Patchwork of Great-Grandmothers

This patchwork of great-grandmothers
And I, milk-fed and bloated and otherwise
Inconsequential, am denied entry
‘We do not want you here,’ they jeer
‘You are not welcome here’ and I fear
The threat of extinction that hangs over us
Every word they said, embedded in my head
I am a paradox. A pox upon my golden locks
I tower over them, as tall as an old oak tree
I stumble over my own singularity
I cannot live among them harmoniously
I am off the map, I am out to sea

There is a story written on my skin
And alienated by alien languages
Hopelessly entangled in everyday tasks
They ask but no answer is forthcoming
They do not seek to matchmake me
They can’t overlook my inauspicious ancestry
I strain on the tether, I slip the leash
Growing more graceless day by day
I sing an idiosyncratic sort of song
I skirt around solid objects
I step into the footprints of saviors
Who shall step into mine?

As I wander the earth I see a universe
That was crafted by my own hands
And yet I still seek out enlightenment
In the deep, dark pools of the divine
In the depths of the heart but all I find
Is disillusionment. I still stand alone
I march up and down the streets
In shanty towns in third world countries
Littered with the decimated lives of strangers
But I do not see. It is as if my eye sockets
Are temporarily empty. Their suffering
Does not touch me. I remain detached.

And gasping for breath at this altitude
The cotton wool clouds are my only deities


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