Do you believe the inanimate

only become alive when others

Command their attention?

Or do they stay compositional,

exploring the vastness of their 

plastic beaned or cotton filled 

Mind. May they be comparing the difference 

in dexterity in the two?

Maybe their civilizations even attain

some cheeses aged to profection

with conversations of politics & hierarchies

to drown out the harshest of whiskies

and the driest of wines. I still believe.


This poem is about: 
My family
My community
My country


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