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Skin, Flask.

So many lives,
so many masks:
all chapters
embracing diversity:

endlessness
of consciousness,
what is the moral,
the takeaway of your story?

Same fluid,
different flask,
and such a narrow view

on the developmental
process
in me: though you only
see the skin

you nonetheless insist,
persist on judging

a book by its cover,
the captain by the vessel,
the temple, with all
its battle scars,
for the occupant.

There is a fucking
difference.
Between self and reality,
ego and social sphere.

Wholeness and survival
reside behind
this hatred and fear.

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