Who can sing the song,

That fills that void unnamed:

Where futility rears its emotional head,

For a split second,

Seizing a moment,

Begging for recognition?

To whom do we task the burden of the soul,

The  unwiedly weight of history begging to be born,

Demanding a composition of the future-to-be-better,

Divorced from the sins of the father.

It can’t be me,

Tired and tried old me,

Who has seen too little,

And shared too much;

The world at large has difficulty,

In a room so small.


It could be you,

Of pure imagination,

And fear of forgetting.

The dreamer we dreamt of,

Who could think the thinks we dare not think,

Daring not to forget the forgotten.


The One to save us All…


“Isn’t it pretty to think so?”



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