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Poetry The Dream

The World Between the Words
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He’d dreamed
a future of wealth
and abundance:

a world of harmony,
where disease,
war and famine
were abolished.

It was filled
with people born
of perfect genes:

a race of beauty
and symmetry,
where malformation
did not exist.

He told me
I was not in the dream.


I was too Irish,
too Moorish,
too Kurdish,
too Yiddish.

My crooked leg
would make me beg.

I was too autistic,
too artistic,
too atheistic,
too altruistic.

My sallow face
would have no place.

I was too gay,
too weird,
too poor,
too feared.

My point of view
would never do.

He’s come to kill me.
 
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