To a Squirrel ...

You're four inches away from me...
Yet you make no claims on me...

The wind...
You share a whiff of a moment...
without staying for the slightest conversation...
The grainy soft crumbles of earth
with the overarching shade cradle me without decisions...
Yet so smilingly complete at farewell steps.
You elude assumptions and implications.
Yet you know....yet you are....

They make claims on me- flaunting their intellectual victories.
Veils of victories- harboring forced identities
Cursed filth rubbed like the dead carcass of another on the skin...
It burns....

But it must...
Because they said you are that and
you must not dishonour their dark arrogance...

Because a flitting incoherent second...
they turn the victim that you must protect by
not piercing through their beliefs and hurt their false spine...
It's a lie...
but it's all they got....

And i let them
rub the camphor on my skin....
turning me into a misty pale ghost...

because it doesn't matter,,.
because you know me...
because i'm here right now...
and never have i felt more insignificantly beautiful.....