Volk
The Albedo Breach
As I watch more riots unfold across the UK, I have been thinking a lot about identity.
An ink droplet ripples across a milk pond, black rings muddying its pale shores. A spot of blood breaks the trust in uniformity, held together precariously by soil and toil— though under the skin it is all akin: muscle and bone.
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Yet another thought-provoking poem - yes, we are all the same underneath...
The ending stayed with me: beneath the skin it all returns to muscle and bone. So many divisions seem solid until we remember how much of the same substance we are made from.