Once deeds spoke
of seeds stoked
with showers of
life’s breathing love
breeding hopes of
rebel poets and other
artists.

Now, you paint with
endless darkness,
as brush strokes
of dust motes
choke all of those
your greed broke.

I do not know
if we have the
strength to grow
and overcome
the cold blacked out sun
from which your
bitter heart sprung,

and the shadows
from which I run
from which this
dreamer’s heart is hung
to swing lifeless
like the corpses
of beautiful horned horses
and other fairytale dreams.

I cannot say if there is enough
beautiful fiction
to trick them
politicians
into doing what is right,
into trying to rewrite
the black void
into new light,

but this is the life
I choose to scribe.
This is how
I will choose to die
or thrive.

My good intentions our mine
and no one else gets to decide
what my purpose is.

Even when, half the time
I am confused as ****
about all of it.