The style of my distinct scale
treated with conversion. An acid
based treatment... practicality.
Once I was unassuming. The root
of steel. A kitchen in a garden.
But my family. But for my family.
In an old photograph. Black and white.
Like my misunderstandings.
Every family nests in a different home.
Preservation minded. Light for every
personality; every room a shocking shade.
The city's architecture, our wound.
It's blood, history and tradition.
On the walls of its building...
a clock with a face like my mother's.
The slow, deliberate hands of a father.
The voice of my brothers. Calling.
How does it feel to survive
the egg? To escape it?
The world is round. The strings
are long and binding. You
are never released. By design.