I

I speak an unfamiliar language.
The one I write is also learned.
Not mine… in any way.
Borrowed,stolen learned?
The white snow like sand dunes across the sight are not mine mine..
The man who loved me last night was not mine
There is a strangeness in tastes
The darkness in colors
those i learn and then i forget
I shred my self each day a little
becoming some one i was not or will never be
But then the lyricism is all mine
the ecstasy the pleasure in his arms was mine
so was the pain I felt with the gust of wind..
this strangeness,this topology this gloss
all are mine at this hour..

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