Inside of any and everything there is
Is a common place
of sorts
It isn't readily identified
It is determined by those and what we
love
Otherwise life is stagnant
obtuse and a place none of us belong
 
Until and when we reckon with ourselves
we sense starched feelings rampant out across the land
we touch nothing and everything we sense or breathe
is passing
On earth we trespass
for want of a better word
We congregate; we form images
In strangers we see ourselves.
Blessed are those who allow or cause us to
Reason
to be  something.
In moments we parade what we were afraid to feel, to know
to imagine
On nights such as this I cross my legs and sense a pattern of things misunderstood
I am reminded
of those
outsiders
I have loved