There's a place where the middle meets the east.


Some of it is made of sand,

it's bland and you could get lost -

in the smoke, the ashes, and in the

tears of children and parents

that flood the brittle gound.


Here, it's too loud to find your way.

You hear yelling that

sounds like thunder;

thunder is lifeless, but

not as lifeless as this yelling.

Thunder is not cruel,

it can be scary but

it'll never hurt you...

Not like the comets that

shoot across the sky -

not the phenomenal ones;

the ones that are made of the same dust as us, but

the ones that boom and bang and rattle your bones.


Then some of it is made of gold.

Vanilla light fills what seems like the world.

It's on the mosaic buildings and

holy mosques,

on the ground to lead you so

you don't get lost, and

in the sky forming constellations with the

twinkling, white stars.

The same gold is the color of their skin and eyes.

It's beauty but no one knows.

They think there's thunder here too,

and rocketing comets.


Here, there's life and

the ocean tickles your toes, and

people are smiling at the wind,

holding hands with an invisible man.


There's a place where the middle

meets the east.

I always see the golden.


This poem is about: 
Our world


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