Peering in the windows,
Of those lives I barely see,
Except when tokens are procured,
For rides, intermittently,
They look at me, I look back,
Nothing severed or taken,
My pith, unimpaired,
And by them, unmistaken,
Do they think that my life,
Should be transformed to theirs,
With foreign exclusions,
And tainted, quaint stares,
Their subtle indifference,
No case dares to appeal,
Embodies the essence,
Of a world they call real,
So they ask with green eyes,
Should I now switch with you,
Would that make my self-worth,
Somehow, progressively true,
I glance, to respond,
That neither is needed,
Because as tolerance failed,
Manipulation succeeded,
We both yearn to validate,
Our courses of being,
Amidst choices of learning,
And preferred ways of seeing,
For now, the windows are closed,
The Santa Anas, they're blowing,
And those lives which premiered,
Have no interest in showing,
We will then pause to wonder,
If the sill might be locked,
Therefore sealed from exposure,
And no chance to be mocked.
(12/30/01)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem