You’d agree
We’re all to blame
Even when
Our choice is
Driven

From the grip
Of blind perceptions
Which assumes
This world
As wrong

And askew
Like twisted shapes
Which define
Their lines
Of meaning

By a curve
With folded edges
Losing dots
Our mind
May blur

As they fade
Beneath each end
Just below
That jagged
Margin

Where belief
Can’t find
Our pencil
For the corners
Left untraced

To determine
Hints of faith
Still hidden
From open
Vision

Through a pain
We call existence
But in truth
Is really
Learned

If depression
Seems more blessed
Than a dream
Of fate
Encountered

Held along
Those miseries
Found among
New gods
We seek

Now drawn
As often
Feared
On a paper
Green and willing

To propose
How lives
Are wasted
For these measures
Made of sin

Passed
Like daily graphs
With statistics
Bound
To temper

Our need
For real graffiti
Which speaks
To souls
Inside

Easy
Though they pass
Between borders
Crisp
And tattered

These marks
Of pens determined
To exploit
Such lies
Defaced

This gift
As lingering scribble
No matter
What hands
May touch them

Or exchange
Without being
Noticed
Those doodles
Meant to resist.

– J. Pigno