And he wrote poetry,
Because his heart moved,
From where it was placed,
Hoping that one day,
It would somehow,
Maybe, find its way back.

In reality,
He was just,
Another complex fallacy,
A cherub, sui juris,
Bound roughly ‘tween,
Love and hope.

That the world might know,
His story of history,
And maybe,
It might help him find stability,
A young pharaoh,
Ruler of none,
For his heart was in exile.

So his quill stops in mid-air,
Blood the ink, strobes…
Like a sailing ship on desert sand,
For these earthlings wouldn’t understand,
And so he stood,
A pyramid without its core.

-Smyekh David-West.


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