Dirt

I have grown tired, of this Augustan beauty,

One that is infused in all touch, word and speak.

Must we embellish on our lives, gold stars and silver,

Decorate ourselves with pity and the chamki of deceit?

I am not only the high-rise of cement and iron, tall & complete;

Nor just the clear cut of glass and neon street signs, blue & white.

I am the dirt caked on the crumbling walls of cramped houses, more

Than this unpaved road can accommodate, yet less than what is necessary.

I am the dirt. And I am born of it, and I shall die of it,

In the meanwhile I will crawl back and forth from cement to earth,

I shall celebrate and curse it in the same breath. A dichotomy of twin culture,

A symphony of one. In this dirt I will resume my existence, dust it into the arid air.

Easily misunderstood is misunderstanding the vernacular thoughts in my head,

Given way to by mine own tongue, created I know not how, except that they carry,

A peculiar feeling of familiarity, as if a childhood memory suddenly restored in vivid colour.

These are the colours that I am made of, unapologetic and vigorous, oscillating constantly.

So I clutch this dirt, and I writhe in it. I grab fistfuls of it and smear it on my soul,

To restore its colour, but retain its polish. I have no grief to spare over my mutated identity,

Only pleasure in the revelation of its duality, its richness and splendour in ambiguous clarity.

This dirt I smell, and feel and touch speaks more to me than all the lustre of these two worlds.