An Impurity of Life

And laying like a forgotten moth ball bag,

(inside that dark and musty corner closet),

I am the hiccup of the Creator –

something that interrupted the beauty,

the perfection,

of what his eyes held for humanity.

A hypocrisy to outwardly destroy me,

so mangled in name and fashioned an outcast.

I am the shameful marks upon his chalkboard –

check

check

check.

So, what have of me then, sir?

What am I if not of you?

If not like them?

Wherever do I belong?

I am not something solid.