Inferiority is a sour root- it’s history-once manifested for a function, question mark free. As if engrossed in a sticky religion, she had no gauging power, acquiescing in this she-ness with a colored comprehension for the sake of her sanity. It was dark there. But low and behold, one day she flapped her wings and flew towards the sun crest. And this future is pregnant with a nakedness for the eye to see- And so she goes- wanderlustful, melody apt, willingly thread-bare, or nuanced with natural science. Rooted in clouds and dust, she may float, ascend, gobble her own humble pie. Lady, I see a world unwandered and swelling with swagger.
Lily Macleod, thank you for sharing this poem in response to our small movement, a beautiful compliment to our campaign.
