In coconut cups and sequin bottoms
She was the dancing queen of the Rio carnival
While in California, a boy walks to the Mardi Gras
To shelve his masks and say I’m no longer the closet boy
And in Sri Lanka, a man wakes up to Shrove Tuesday
Walks to a confessional, before lent begins

And what binds the three together, is the human thread
Of finding ourselves. There’s a needle called fate
That weaves the fabric of our own belongings
Of the interlaced places we tend to hide
For peer acclaim. And we are only as valuable
As our mirror images, and not what we mirror
To our surroundings, the circles of kith and kin.

Life is about fitting in or fitting out
When the chair we sit on and the bed we share
Or the table we dine on, tell us more than our facebook trends.
We travel with pieces of furniture
Furnishing us with our quotidian habits
The wood that preserves souls bonded in chemistry
And flesh interfaces of kinetic love.

And the woman in Brazil or the boy in California
Or I, the man from Sri Lanka, will 20 years on
Remember not the glamor and color in our lives.
Only the chair, the bed and the table,
And who sat on them. We are only as alive
As our many symbioses; heart and heart, heart and hearts,
Hearts on heartwood.

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