Fifty years ago, the future came,
built in concrete, tile, and bright lights,
underground station, undergirding the fame
of this city, adding to its manifold sights.

Now the future’s a place that smells of stale beer,
barely lit by futuristic lamps in disrepair,
wallpapered in graffiti, strewn with gear
of the pale homeless who’ve made this their lair.

They, like this chipped, grimy, forsaken place
are left in the dust of our dreams’ mercury pace.

I try to avoid clichés, such as the word ‘someday,’ but I can’t deny the hope it carries. It’s beautiful and promising, like the first light of day. Seven simple letters that hold the weight of my dreams.

Someday, I’ll write about cool winds and peaceful rain, about afternoons spent wandering through gardens. I’ll describe the grass beneath my feet, as though it thanks me for walking this earth. I’ll write of vast cities, where new streets hum with life, new places I’ve visited, and those yet to come.

Someday, I will only wait for sunrises and sunsets. I’ll leave the sciences behind in favor of what nourishes the soul. I’ll indulge in simple joys, like flipping through recipe books and learning the art of crafting the perfect soup.

Someday, my writing will shift. It will be less about others and more about me—how I am loved, how I am loved well, and how those I love are lucky to have me. I’ll be hidden, only found by those who seek me in my absence, who know that I’ve always left the door open. At the dining table, I’ll sit with friends who stayed, who made me stay, and who never took me for granted.

Someday, I’ll spend more time analyzing constellations, and less on pondering why relationships fail. I’ll always have the right words to say, no hesitation, no delay. Someday, my writing will be simple and clear, no ironies, no hidden metaphors.
Short, and sweet;
No traces of past pains, or of having dealt with goodbyes.

But someday is still a distant thought. For now, I let the ink bleed a little longer. I let the pen spell words like grief and loss.

I lose myself in spectral alternatives
Of an uncertain and nonexistent future.
Tormented by inconsistent thoughts,
By inconsistent perspectives
And in the countless possibilities of the horizon.

A feeling that accelerates the chest,
At times paralyzing and tormenting,
Moving in disharmonious rhythms,
Expelling an unmeasured air
From a gasping breath.

I cling to the present
That runs and does not forgive,
Thrives and insists,
Being the only one that resists,
To the past and to the future.

...when I found out that coal power plant ash produces more uranium, toxic chemicals and heavy metals than nuclear power plants.

I’m walking by the dimming remains
of a building of future past:
its once stylish streetlight, now decayed,
points at the Moon that’s rising fast.

The old streetlight was made of globes of glass
that circle its core of steel bars.
It looks like a starship, sleek and fast,
but now its globes are dusty and scarred.

The globes, a circle of eight bright moons,
orbit the streetlight’s tall spire
that points up to the glowing sky jewel,
to the place to which it aspires.

Up there, on brightly lit lunar plains,
our spacefarers once walked in awe
and dreamt of Zarathustra’s booming strains
in two thousand and one proud hurrahs.

And so this spacecraft of glass globes
was made to look up to the stars,
to urge us on to launch further probes
and take wing from this blue globe of ours.

Years later, this dream has faded
to fleeting stars of reality shows,
who leave the people fixated —
not by the Moon’s, but by screens’ dim glow.

The streetlight was fixed firmly to earth,
iron bolted to grey crumbling concrete.
But it still points up to the heavenly berth:
Moon rises, a dream left on repeat.

If freshman year was aspirational
and sophomore year was unhinged
junior year was put up or shut up
and senior year is a dash to the finish line

This year’s on fast forward—and it’s for keeps
every to-do list has value-laden questions
things seem sharp edged, single use and intense
it’s all about trajectories and ‘landing spots”

Let’s wax poetic..

Produce now, or spend fury on thyself—all else is untenable
we’re past youth and ignorance—your honour’s at stake

Suitors call you by name, like well-acquainted friends
they took your measure—you’re beyond the mark of others
they ****** with money—the future brings liberty and noble deeds.

So don the the garland and prove thyself—take the field
join the battle—now’s the reward—aidless, perpetual toil
with every motion be right, it’s thy shunless destiny.
.
.
A song for this:
A Man of Great Promise by The Style Council
Headstart For Happiness by The Style Council

It all can’t be done
As many ways to do it
As there are things to be done
As many outcomes desired
As ones to desire it

How to decide
Which path to take?
How to know what to want?
When we murdered god
And failed to do better?

In its own image
The children of gods are born
They too will fail to build heaven
The dreams set out
By god itself

For there is nothing
In any place within or out
That can be created or made new
If not destroying or replacing
What came before

I can’t help but notice
Some twinkle in your eye;
Your thoughts now are subtle,
But I’ll see through, by and by.

I know how you’ll act
Once you get the right chance.
You'll do just as expected--
And with fate you will dance.

A Berlin building. Sunbeams of steel
made to shine in suns of future’s gold,
now dreary, dimmed and forced to kneel
to the timeless gods of growing old.

Its shining future could not last.
Sinking in a golden fade, a forgotten grail.
Of sunbeam ore, new futures are cast,
bright dreams unbound by fear’s black veil.

From the forge of steely sunbeams
comes a new grail of sunlit dreams
and the tireless gods’ tired reign
is overthrown for another day.