I Know a Place Where No Cars Go 

It was an anomalous sighting, a lack there of a shock factor from the misty clouds I breathed in, yet my feet ambled the grounds like a passing memory. Each footstep ignited the echoes of seven generations of solitude hidden within the youth of a sympathetic heart. Burned, torched and heart of steel, a malfunctioning engine and most endearingly, my grip of leather to the touch. My heart, I cannot tell, but it is mine, and I am indebted.

The sun passed through the gaps of your fingers like fragments of time, disfigured, arranged, and controlled by my will. The will I fought formed a smoky mirage of 1974. There is no denying the simple complexity of a man’s agency to kneel in shoddy disgrace beneath what he once believed in. If I did not besiege my country, my home and my state, what would I be left? I will to sacrifice myself as a martyr, but my will will not continue to harm the people I hold tightly at night. Pure will, sheer will, I am in myself. But I lack thereof an articulate thought to express the treated and the mistreated and stand as an anchor for the scarred faces, weakened eyes and soft smiles

Continuously I am defined and redefined like a packet of undistilled powdered milk. A child’s heart is most sensitive to a mother’s scent, touch, and affection. But no matter how I wake up each dragging morning, I find myself unable to reiterate my senselessness in a sullen hole marked onto the spot of utopia on a map. A map blank of locations, ready to be filled with only my imagination. I carefully cut out a picture, gingerly through the inevitable suffering of the body failing to function. Like hard metal hitting the ground, a faulty left U-turn towards the traffic pole, my flesh is left to fend for itself; anomalously, I am still alive