little pale houses
line the shifting hills,
eggshell foundations
creaking.
their lives,
held up
by the curving hills,
are never quite
right enough,
reminiscent of the
faded rows of boxes
they live in.
a soft,
heavy
layer of fog
creeps out
over the not-quite-straight rows
like a child’s blanket,
numbing the eyes
of the people
to the movement below,
around,
and through their lives.
even the fuzz
moves in strange ways.
but oh,
how sleek
the city looks,
skyscrapers fading
into cloud that
hides the trembling
of the glass towers,
their very height obscured
into fame.
even the
“golden” bridge hides the
silent rattle of
fog-tired steel
under a layer
of peeling red paint.
and the people,
each unaware
of their own
insignificance,
watch the tremors
with a chipped smile.
| My Nationality: Caught in the Middle of Red, White, and Blue | Poetry |
| How does my nationality affect me? Read an essay about my binationality and how it has shaped me. | From oral storytelling to slam poetry, poetry is an art form that predates literacy itself. |
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