This is my public confession.
Because I have nothing to lose.
My hands are my own.
They were given to me:
I asked boldly for what I already had.
I couldn't see it by myself,
So it was given to me.
There is always more, some unknown depth.

I don't hold my fate.
It plays into too many other hands.
I can shape it.
I can stop asking why.
I can leave it on a sidewalk.

Without too much to bear,
The deeds become themselves:
Freely formed and left to float
As trust upon the breeze.
The treetops envious.
They see up close,
What I can choose to see from above.
There is death in this vision.

So I confess:
I cannot say what would show
That which cannot be told.
The rhythm is too subtle.
The language too diverse.

Simplicity is eternity.
A binary system that makes us choose.
Laughing because it knows death cares about the journey too.
Which is why I say it and it isn't beautiful.
There are no Greeks. No French, Germans or Irish.
No sexes. No sexualities. Races or bigotries.
This is only my confession.
It was given to me.