Strange how–
still separated by time,
by a world made of spaces,
by mismatched frequencies of
speech and faith,
the undulating currents and currencies of
what it means to be human
in a world bled by the
needs we can’t deny or the pains
we choose to allow,
these borders we have built with hands
unfettered by memories of connection—
we still choose sometimes to
make wonder out of weapons and
make liquid the light that
illuminates the cracks in our facades and,
shimmering,
dies.
Was it ever that we were separate,
gods alone in our towers,
or were we merely children,
waiting once more for the freedom of play,
the work of souls
bound up in a momentary agreement that
for a small time,
we can smile in silence at the crackling stars we have made?
©K Paige Medina 01 January 2017
