I’m writing this poem
Almost in silence.
Silent besides the chaos on Lincoln.
But this is as close to silence
As I have access to.
How desperate this world has been.
How desperate this world has become.
So many humans,
Full blood,
Real human beings,
With infinite complexity,
Holding on by a hang nail.
Holding on to anything that’s left.
What’s left?
The only thing left
is everything worth our breath.
Cry desperation,
Answered by nothing but love and hope.
These broken sidewalks
Can be repaired.
These broken sidewalks,
Are ladders to the stars.
Jul 3, 2025
Jul 3, 2025 at 9:15 PM UTC
I’m writing this poem
Almost in silence.
Silent besides the chaos on Lincoln.
But this is as close to silence
As I have access to.
How desperate this world has been.
How desperate this world has become.
So many humans,
Full blood,
Real human beings,
With infinite complexity,
Holding on by a hang nail.
Holding on to anything that’s left.
What’s left?
The only thing left
is everything worth our breath.
Cry desperation,
Answered by nothing but love and hope.
These broken sidewalks
Can be repaired.
These broken sidewalks,
Are ladders to the stars.
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