Pigeonhole.

see what happens when i am left alone with a pen on a dreary winter afternoon? 

the photograph which spurred this one was borrowed from an excellent poet and artist, Michele Vassal Ring. 

Pigeonhole

Tectonic cracks mar the social landscape, stretch across the global market, releasing noxious gases in common space. The ominous cumulus weighs down the public mind, I feel it all from this ledge, at the edge of a world I cannot claim.

Laws and opinions multiply like uncontrollable litters in the political arena, according to interest along a sclerotic divide dressed of fickle bi-partisan colors.

Disorganized religions cover the map to separate the unsuspecting or suffocate the dissenting; when each is searching for its own ultimate good.

Venus and Mars are touted as competitive in a futile sport; dissect, trisect or splinter may never override the proverbial Adam and Eve within.

Energy has become the new board game of the century, pitting winds against fossils, sun against atoms. Divide or provide cut along profit margins of the instant against long need.

Questions, questions on forms and applications for permit to live, permit to die, within reasons of ethnic lines when humanity would suffice sans segregating complications.

Food and water fights in the sterile halls of obfuscation rend the living process into despair for the multitudes. As biomes which could sustain are dissected for benefit and by pain.

Tectonic splits are groaning beneath the feet of the laden, and yet I see a sliver of light across the squall line of disparity, there, where unity means unadorned faith in all being.