[ALL RIGHTS RESERVED]
BY RUI CARLOS DA CUNHA
No one would ever know what it's like to be blue with cyanopathy.
Everyone sees the world through their cerebral eyes but feels viscerally.
Inclusiveness exists now as apology for a limited past.
Troubles force us to see our participation undermining others.
Haunted by memories, our lack of compassion, accountability.
Egoists continue to stroke what comforts them in maniacal texts.
Rest assured the present envelopes the future moment after moment.
Blisters on my fingers, without support, I fell deep down the rabbit hole.
Languish doing nothing because someone said no to offer assistance.
Admonish my hubris to call out detractors from art school, Arnold Kemp.
Color is deeper than the surface called skin deep, the context for karma.
Karma survives ages, riddles the wrongs with games destroying all context.
Nimble fingers play notes on pianoforte, quieter and louder.
Objectivity sounds like a cat on the keys, playing without knowing.
Remind humanity to take but a moment to be compassionate.
Wickedness understands only how to be mean, revel in misery.
How our schadenfreude derives from doing harm to feel a sense of joy.
Ignore our ignorance, focus on positive acts that portray our best side.
To profile on the streets shows a lack of judgment, judgment before judgment.
Endlessly we spiral round the gyre, a circle of conceit lacking wit.