What the Blind Man Sees
People are like rain. We all come from the same place and go bodily to the same end - wherever that may be.
It doesn't matter much whether you view the One as being Parmenidean, Gaian, Theological (historical-pastoral, tragical-historical, tragical-comical-historical-pastoral...).
The title was Inali's idea. The poem was co-written over a weekend with Ser, from her original idea.
A sense of soft antiquity,
Mist-like, softly falls,
With posters, billboards, pamphlets
Frozen against walls
Stretching paper arms around your neck.

The little children running free,
Their scents entwine
With that of cotton candy,
They do not fear the passing time:
Their laughter fades as you drift down the road.

The poor, in heavy contrast, stand
Against the shining pride
The rich man takes in coins and land
Which fuels their deep divide
And smothers gentle kindness where it sleeps.

So greed sneaks up and softly comes,
And seeks to overthrow
The strength we have in being One,
The love we all should know.
Angry fingers point to battered cheeks.

And even though their parents fight
Through misplaced fear and arrogance
The children share their food and light
As concord battles prejudice
And turn to watch the gentle orange sunset.

When you get right down to blood and bone
You find it's much the same, theirs or your own.