inherit the wind
We are inheriting Art and Arc
Of trying to understand.
How once, we were fingers,
Born of the same common hand.
Miniatures born into this land
Of thought.
Tactile each, and that ought,
To have been enough.
But,
In the sound of each brushed whisper
Overheard in the billowing clouds,
We fought the thought
Of the popular injunction.
Loud as a newborn’s cry,
Yet rough
As an unwanted memorry.
We are the ones
Still trying
To Understand.
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