Fool—for the ever impending revolution.
Sell it on Instagram
to get back to the village you’ve never seen and only exists on the map of your marrow.
Money can’t buy you a ticket back there. We live in the village of diaspora now.
Money can buy you a therapist and a soft couch to wail on.
It must become your ruler though, if you want the soft private space to expel your despair.
If you do it in the streets they’ll call you an animal as though they don’t know we are all but shards of Gawd.
There are laws against that you know; remembering that you’re a Gawd has consequences.
Mostly for the rulers, but they’ve convinced us it’s the other way around.