For whom are dreams designed?
For what are life’s successes sculpted?
Not for minds who empty like
sordid shower streams dripping down the drain
at moment’s notice,
neither for bodies
so broad their significance is infinitesimal,
nor for skin burned
by the fiery stares of ice blue eyes.
Not for anyone like me.

I’m expected to believe that gravity is real
in the spirit world and
I should fall faster because every part of me matters

They built skyscrapers on my back
and dared me to reach but
my every exhale spins tornadoes
my gentle whisper thunderstorms and
no architect can counteract an act of God