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Disguised from the time of conception                              

Born with a mask

I am exiled even from Self

A walking shadow, a woman on the run

Condemned to remain stranger to strangers

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In the distance, I see a finish line the color of acceptance

Breathless I fall at the feet of my judges

Their stares cut into me like the chisel of a sculptor

They envision me a trophy

Deep Bronze or High Yella

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Disconcerted that I have traveled far

To go nowhere

I dangle from a frail bridge of mediocre insights

That links two worlds

Separated by miles of differences

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Now in the distance, a familiar hand

- One that I had never seen before -

Reaches for me and pulls me out of

The uncommon race

Where one is lacquered and painted Bronze or High Yella