ǝɹǝɥdsıɯǝɥ

photo-8

If I were to spin a globe and peel away the maps,
Longitude would lose its way, Latitude collapse.
Disillusion of dimension, sameness on a plane.
Celestial orbs no longer feel a dart’s defacing pain.
Then who’s to say what’s really upside-down
Once an orb is void of its atlas gown?
Sphere belted with division, of hate that would confine,
—lest we forget that the equator is an imaginary line.

Older than antiquity, Axis still prevailed
Yet rid himself of borderlines where men had fought and failed.
Losing sight of global warmth, we use our feeble minds
To find the paths we made ourselves- definitive is hard to find.
Draw, erase, repair, reface a canvas not our own.
Relinquish to Celestial hands, then purpose we have sown.

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