Canyons
My chasms are the lines in fingerprints.
Microscopic and often mocked
by those who cross canyons
and cannot relate or compare.
They peer in from a safe distance,
sometimes squinting from many miles,
often reminiscing and guessing
from many moons or many rooms or many tombs.
They sink their fangs into zero truth;
they cling to conjecture and rumors.
This used to bother me so.
I used to scream within and without,
struggling to be understood and accepted.
Today, I observe. I contemplate but don't care.
I'm immune to the judgment and stares.
