If I flew around with laughter
would my mirth infect the living dead?
Would their groans resound an answer
to the ceaseless gossip in my head
that never seeks the things that matter
but wanders in the gardens of the stead
where discordant rounds of chatter
mimic every paragraph I've read.

If I stumbled through this sorrow
would the sky paint poems out of cloud?
Would the heavy shroud of false tomorrow
find a moment's solace in the sound
that was summoned from a hollow
outside the paved confines of a town
where shady specters tend to wallow
in poisons growing from the ground?

If I was frozen stiff with terror
would the sun spin a coat of warmth?
Would the threads singe or scald the wearer
if he's not filled with righteous worth
that was meant for someone fairer
who roots their comfort in the earth
where not a step is made in error
riding blazing comets through the north.

If I was sick with worry
would there be the comforts of some love?
Would wind push these sails to hurry
and bring some air back to the lung
that was emptied in a spoken slurry
heralding the hurricanes above
where cause and effect go running, blurry
and no one knows what will become.

If my temper cracked in anger
would starlight soften every blow?
Would the lightning clap with thunder
as it rouses the sleeping secrets of our own
that fill these kingdoms up with wonder
and kindly show us how to grow
where we're feeding all our hunger
with the seeds of hope we've sewn.