I no longer think hopes and dreams die
They float around this Earth waiting
Waiting until we give birth to our children
That's when they will reappear
Wrapping themselves around them
Creating an Impenetrable force field
Giving our children the strength we lacked
Helping them achieve the desires
That rumble in their bellies
They will allow the beam of light
The one we will pass down to them
To burst out of their chest
Not fearing the moon's envy
For their light will be the brightest
It will guide bodies
To their own hearts destinations
Stories will be written on staggering walls
About the children of failure who rose up
Who had so much passion
That they created their own light
Led love and happiness
To the doorsteps of many
Brought misery to its knees
With constant humble human nectar
That is what our children will be

Somewhere along the way
I picked up a heavy load
of dead wood, a couple of degrees
east of East Tennessee,
a few bottles uncorked,
problem women, and another
woman, a child, and a mortgage,
all while I wandered down the left fork
of the wrong road like the red silt
in a river that has forgotten
its source, but enjoying the scenery,
the journey, and, of course,
the paths I tended to leave
through the high weeds where I lost
myself and my footprints so loud
I could hear them before I left them
on the ground behind me
like hollow dreams trampled down
beneath the feet that I follow.

.
With wings at rest longer than its tail
My hobby waits.  Great bird of creation,
Where do you come from?  As I sit and mull
You take flight to and from places I may
Never know,
                            Where are you taking me,
Great spirit on high, far, farther-ring with light
And the wind, which streams then to delirium
Heights?  I am bled and I am torn.  Must I
Suffer in my soaring?  Your clutch, tings
The sky, pierce the cloud, my hobby hovers,
I dream of coronations, talons to my head—
A crown of thorns.

Love* can conquer all
But so can *war
So be careful
What you wish for