I am done with dreaming the future

By divorcing it from the past,

By pretending the clouds

That loom heavy above

Are the tokens of pain surpassed.

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God forbid that a candle were violent

And arson a cozy retreat

That the cathartic release of the silent

Could hold on to the edge of your seat.

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Or to think that disaster be gentle

Through the washing away in a storm,

That the notes that we sing

And the words that we chant

Are the pleasure in killing the norm.

​

Has there ever been grievance unspoken

That bled not like the sweat on your brow?

Has your mind ever struggled and suffered

For the ifs in the place of the hows?

​

Say it matters that art is a mirror,

That the world is a door, and we’re out:

Does that then go to show

That our future is low

And that peace we shall struggle without?

​

Or is “world” just a word for the taking

To be borrowed and twisted and spun

To be molded and felted and tainted

Until all we can see is the sun?