Blurred Culture

Just as we are, we were made to be Straight ties, ironed shirt and no sense of identity. Who are they, they asked Are they sooted white or just black as snow. They talk as would an aristocrat but yet that hair betrays them. Pitted deep in their heart was a sense of longing but neither could they share their earnest hope, to them it was a ragged belief. Faith was always an unspoken ethic of their courage. They told them " In order to grow you must cut at the base" The thing they would fail to realise, bearer than fiction, was their true voice. The voice that told them the clothes they wore were of alien decent. The Suit they prefer most was of the barest cut. Who decided against my choices? I left bread for you and yet only the flour mattered as if only you could eat the flour. Must not the flour be moulded first to form you bread. Why is it then that I have become the leaven in my progression. Until the concluding of my affairs I will not find understanding of what They culture.