I don’t often think of my skin
We are all skeletons underneath
Made from the same star dust
But sometimes I find myself looking at countries
Through the haze of history’s vast potential
And I wonder if wandering amidst the clouds
I might find myself confronted by a question of design
Would my shade be a part of my metamorphosis?
I can only think of the chains people wore
And compare them to my own invisible ones today
Are the two any different?
Have I, like water, flown out of a drain
And emerged in the vast, expansive ocean
Or am I just a land-locked phenomenon
Limited in my imaginative pursuits
And in the way my heart can sing from within
By these invisible concrete walls of colour?


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