I hear whispers of a world about to change.
This earth is impressionable, like clay or sand that we put our prints in,
and you and I are sculptors.
I breathe the universe in, and when I breathe out it shakes the ground.
I am frightened by the power in my lungs.
My eyes are television: they see this drama unfold but cannot grasp reality.
oh to have strength to act on what I see
My fingertips tingle, but they are lying dormant on the armrest, and will not move.
She makes dinner;
it is bread
and other things seemingly
but in the every day
she fights a war.
He feels tremors of a world about to break.
“Morality is fragmented, a compass that knows no north” he says,
“And all the earth will be damned!”
The City Times printed his words (the first time they ever used red ink)
and people weren’t sure if they should laugh or not.
He doesn’t care about the world ending, but shouting helps him feel alive when he is numb.
oh to burn for something brighter than this
We starve for meaning, we long for fire like it is our oxygen, and crave glory.
I leave my chair
and walk down
the stairs and out the door of
Every act of courage
must start somewhere.