Our own false crown

Look at that face you think you hate
your fellow soul behind those eyes
the heart that beats to seek its joy –
those shoes
you couldn’t
wouldn’t
wear or care

to

know the mind
that has its reasons why

no matter that you dare

to

fight each other over
colour
gender
money
generation
class
your race
your place
your sexuality
and
faith

this is
our own false crown,
our dismal trickle down
of gluttony for isolating
schisms

this, our mechanism
for our self-imprisonment

as though capacity
to intersect
were a pre-selected place
a trophy earned
and gifted by a crowd

fair nuance forced to bow
and dance ‘Excuse Me’ with
projection and modality
upon a fickle frame

and if the vitriol don’t kill you
the inanity sure will

because
what’s given to be different
is uniquely still the same.