The Border

Writing a poem is peeling a wallpaper,

A poet said, how a tear begins to tear,

Winding downward, to the base of humanity and to

Vast horizon where it ends in the most

Serpentine manner without prey in sight, yet

If the prey were to be an idea, the talons are

Words to begin and end, gripping, declaring their

Stellar talents, under the constellation of will,

Weaving in and out of lime, yellow,

And cerulean, swirling and abound.

The migrants travel under sus stars,

Guided by a gully where bodies are entwined,

And entertained by desert, but walls are

Disclosed to tower over strewn shadows,

Stretched and spread across sands,

Where borders meet and fail to meet

All our standards, all missions lost,

Found then and there.